


Hungry For Happiness

by lily37



Series: Hungry for Happiness [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anorexia, Child Abuse, Eating Disorders, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 21:48:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 32,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lily37/pseuds/lily37
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's biggest enemy is his appetite.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

‘Why was it always so cold in this damn country?’ Sherlock thought as he bounded up the stairs towards his flat. The last few days had been relentless thanks to three serial suicides accompanied with September sleet. ‘I might move abroad...see how Scotland Yard can manage then’ Sherlock mumbled under his breath with a smirk toying at his lips.

‘Say somethin’? I’m just cooking dinner in the kitchen!’ John shouted. ‘Well of course you’d be in the kitchen if you were cooking John, do try and think about what you’re saying,’ replied Sherlock as he silently crept over to where John was standing. ‘Alright smart arse, I thought you’d appreciate a cooked meal after your latest case. I made your favourite too: lasagne!’ Sherlock’s silence made John turn around and study his flat mate for the first time since he came in. John mentally noted the fine sheet of sweat that coated Sherlock’s brow, and the pure grey eyes that seemed to lack focus ever so slightly. ‘Are you feeling okay Sherlock?’ he ventured aloud. ‘What? Yes, yes I’m fine Doctor’ and with that Sherlock left the room, still wearing his coat and shoes and entered the bathroom, slamming the door as he did so. 

John stood glued to the spot for a good five seconds before he realised what had just happened. Normally, Sherlock would return from a case brimming with pride and satisfaction, and especially as John was needed at the practice he’d expected the details of how ‘tediously easy’ and how everyone was ‘moronic beyond belief’ relayed back to him. This time, however, Sherlock had insulted his intelligence and been sarcastic at his concern. Wearily, he returned to check on the dinner whilst replaying the conversation in his head to see if he’d said something wrong.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was uncomfortably sat on the edge of the bath, with the heels of his hands pressed into his eyes hard enough to make himself dizzy. He knew exactly where he lost control of his usual blank expression, but John, poor John had no idea. The case had been so deliciously complicated and he had missed not having John there. When he delivered the final, killer fact of his deduction he looked around expectantly for John’s appraisal, though of course he’d never admit this. 

Sherlock would be nothing without his complex mind. The way that thoughts entangle and merge together to form beautiful conclusions came effortlessly to him, something he couldn’t stop if he tried; something else that his mind would automatically begin to resolve and process was food content. He started paying attention to food when he realised the ungodly effects it can have on your body- just look at Mycroft’s rotund figure as evidence. This was of course Sherlock, so nutritional values of every food bought into the house was memorised easily by the teenage genius. When John had mentioned dinner he thought about his last meal which was four days ago, Mrs Hudson had said he ‘needed feeding up’ and he hated to see the disappointment in her eyes if he resolutely declined. He crept over to see the meal for himself and suddenly felt quite angry. Was John trying to kill him? There was absolutely no reason for using that much cheese and cheese had a lot of calories in it, didn’t it? The average serving of lasagne had three hundred and fourteen calories and here John was adding more! There was definitely two grams of fat in that thing and it was thirty nine point two gram carbohydrate. He could taste bile at the back of his throat and his stomach unpleasantly churned. Masking his repulsion and making sure there was no room for John’s concern he made his way directly to the bathroom.

Still shivering Sherlock decided to have a bath as it would be the most logical thing to do at this moment in time. He decided against taking his clothes off until it was absolutely necessary as he was only just regaining feeling in the tips of his fingers and toes. Lavishly pouring raspberry and cranberry bubble bath into the stream of running water, he sent a text to Molly requesting fresh human organs in return for a coffee and gracefully lowered himself into the bath. 

Fifteen minutes later and Sherlock awoke to the sound of John rather loudly knocking on the door. Just as John announced ‘I’m coming in Sherlock!’ he finally found his voice and explained that he was fine, that there was no concussion, that he hadn’t fell asleep he’d been thinking and that yes, he’d be out soon.

Leaving the bathroom caused Sherlock to violently shiver, why was everywhere so incessantly cold today? He made his way towards the sofa where he dramatically collapsed then proceeded to make his tall form impossibly small.

John quite frankly wasn’t in the mood for one of Sherlock’s sulks. He could feel a headache starting to blossom and he’d been stuck slaving over a stove ever since Lestrade had text him to tell him that the case was finally solved. When he thought about it, Lestrade never usually announced the end of a case like that, what wasn’t he noticing? Sherlock’s mantra of ‘you see, but do not observe John’ was spiralling around his mind adding to the threat of a particularly nasty headache.

Dishing out the dinner John made sure to give Sherlock more than himself. He glanced over at the detective and noticed how his hipbones jutted out through the thin silk dressing gown, which did nothing to resolve his worries. After thirty seconds of indecisiveness John mustered the courage to just put the meal in front of Sherlock and see if they could act like grown-ups, for once.  
John gratefully flopped down into his armchair with a sigh and began to eagerly devour his own portion. He couldn’t help but notice the damp curls that plagued the detective’s forehead and was just about to ask about the case when Sherlock’s phone chime interrupted him. As expected, Sherlock’s eyes squinted at the bright LED screen before sending back a quick reply. He then yawned with such effort that his whole body shook and rather sullenly stared at his piece of lasagne. ‘It’s not poisoned you know’ John supplied. ‘Of course not, I would have deduced poison by the smell which means that if it was poisoned, which it isn’t, I would have known five minutes ago when I was still facing the back of the sofa,’ with that unbelievably fast outburst Sherlock began to take ridiculously small mouthfuls and his stomach audibly growled gratefully. 

John stood up with a wince as his knees cracked simultaneously. He took his cup and plate over to the sink and stared at the setting sun. ‘It’s nice out,’ he remarked, ‘...Oh and it’s not even seven thirty, fancy a walk around Regents Park?’ Sherlock grunted in a non-committed fashion, but John soon saw the tall figure retreat towards his bedroom presumably to get changed.

Ten minutes later and they were walking in companionable silence towards the park entrance. As soon as they were inside and realised that everyone must have had the same idea to visit the park tonight, Sherlock came to life. His eyes had an intense burning to them that John correctly interpreted as a good sign. ‘Her fish died tonight’ the detective announced with a smirk whilst pointing to a girl of about fifteen. The girl had long brown hair slung into a low ponytail, wore denim dungarees and was carrying a clear bag full of water that contained a very much alive goldfish. ‘How the bloody hell do you know that? John asked with a grin. Then that was it, Sherlock was practically dancing with excitement as he informed John that ‘people don’t buy fish for fun, they’re boring and pathetic, bit like Anderson if you will. She’s bought it to mask the grief she’s feeling from murdering Bubbles, that combined with the tear stained cheeks makes it startlingly obvious!’ ‘Ok...but Bubbles?’ John asked with a puzzled look on his face. ‘Her dead fish John!’ Sherlock exasperatedly yelled. With that outburst, five people, including the girl, stared at the quarrelling couple and they continued to stare as the pair dissolved into a fit of hysterical giggles. They did two laps of the lake before falling in-step with each other and taking the familiar route back to Baker Street.

They’d just ducked into an alleyway John hadn’t known had existed until Sherlock dragged him down it whilst chasing a suspect when Sherlock’s vision began to blur. Sherlock felt his body mock him as he struggled to cling on to consciousness, patches of darkness threatening to drown him. ‘J’on’ he managed to say in a strangled whisper before falling backwards with quite some force. ‘Shit!’ followed by a string of expletives was all John managed to say before he was at Sherlock’s side, checking his pulse. About fifteen seconds had passed before Sherlock began to show any signs of coming around, but it felt much longer for the doctor within John. He pulled the detective to his feet when he was certain there were no immediate problems and half carried, half dragged him back to their flat. 

Two hours had passed since Sherlock had collapsed and John finally knew why. Sherlock’s torso was efficiently bandaged and painkillers had been injected into his bloodstream. John didn’t even give him time to wake up properly before he was hammering him with questions. ‘Didn’t you think it was important to tell me you’d broken a rib Sherlock? Or was I supposed to deduce it by the mud on your shows or the...the tear in your scarf?’ he exclaimed running his hands through his hair. ‘There’s a tear in my scarf?!’ Sherlock shouted whilst trying his best to sit up on the sofa. ‘No, no, no I used it as a bloody example Sherlock. Your scarf’s fine. Why didn’t you tell me though? I made you do all that walking as well! Christ...’ John proclaimed sheepishly. ‘I forgot’ Sherlock mumbled actually managing to sound guilty. ‘You must have been in pain!’ John countered, but then remembered that this is Sherlock so something as tedious as pain wouldn’t affect him the same as every other, normal human being. John’s ugly anger dissolved in seconds when he saw the innocently guilty expression on his best friends face. He could have sworn he heard him mumble something along the lines of ‘I didn’t want to worry you’ but he didn’t press it further.

As Sherlock watched John’s face become illuminated by the glow of the tele he failed to conceal his yawn. ‘Bed.’ -One simple command that corporals would find hard to disobey. Sherlock considered dismissing John’s concern, but he felt mentally and physically exhausted and couldn’t think of anything better than fluffy pillows and a comfy mattress. Every bone in his body felt too heavy to move. Sherlock gratefully accepted John’s help whilst he got to his feet and then shuffled into his bedroom. He took off his still unfastened shirt in favour of a comfy cotton tee, and swapped his fitted trousers for loose fitting pyjamas. Clumsily he fell onto the bed which proved to be a bit of a struggle due to the amount of –what John would call ‘junk’- he had to move first.

Six minutes, seventeen seconds passed until the familiar grown from the ninth stair made it clear that John was going to bed. Sherlock waited another twelve minutes before shrugging on his dressing gown and silently padding towards the living room. Each step was calculated perfectly despite the slight throb of his protesting torso. Sherlock retrieved the plate of lasagne from behind the bookcase, glanced at it distastefully and then emptied it into a welcoming bin bag with the rest of the left-overs. He made his way back to his bedroom looking forward to falling asleep with a considerably cleaner conscience until he stood on an upturned plug which caused him to move his torso sharply. Hissing and grunting he let himself fall down the wall slowly so he could take a few moments to gather himself. 

Try all he might John could not sleep on a night as warm as this. He internally thanked God for small mercies as he realised it was nearing one AM, but that tomorrow was a Saturday. Eventually he gave up on sleep all together and went to retrieve his laptop so he could make a start on typing up this new case, what little he knew about it anyway. He figured that today, well yesterday, had been one of those days that are made to test the patience of a saint and that everything would return to normal soon enough. 

Sherlock anticipated John’s arrival perfectly and made himself known just in time to avoid a collision. ‘John, I am aware that I am sitting rather uncomfortably on the floor, if you could be so kind as to help me up that would be marvellous.’ John’s dramatically sharp intake of breath and bemused expression did nothing to help Sherlock’s circumstance.  
Sherlock told John that he was looking for painkillers when he fell and John seemed to buy it easy enough. The next hour was spent going over the case; John began to wish he’d been firmer with Sarah, but she did allow him a lot of leeway where Sherlock was concerned. It turned out that the three serial suicides were three neighbours who had been murdered and it had been made to look like suicides. The killer even confessed to planning to take out an entire street! Sherlock said that the big giveaway was when the murderer ‘stupidly chose tomato sauce with his bacon sandwich, moron.’ With this serious statement John began giggling like a school girl, which if asked, he would put down to the stress of the last twelve or so hours.  
God only knows why tea is appropriate for every situation in England, but nevertheless, when asked whether he wanted tea or biscuits Sherlock politely refused blaming the nausea. ‘You might lose your appetite for a few days, by the way’ John called from the kitchen, ‘not that you had much of one anyway, but that’s what usually happens...d’you know I’ve never broke a rib? Broke a toe once, but not a rib...’ and John was off rambling about his rib related injuries, but what caught Sherlock’s attention was the diagnosed loss of appetite. 

Lestrade called to the flat early the next morning in the hope of finding Sherlock in. He quietly let himself in so he wouldn’t disturb Mrs Hudson and began the familiar climb to 221B. As he gently knocked and waited for a reply he thought he could hear a faint whistling. ‘I hope Sherlock hasn’t let an experiment boil over, or the bloody kettle’ he thought to himself. Acting on this trail of thought he tried the door and fortunately it was unlocked so he pushed it marginally open. The sight that met him was enough to leave him stunned with his mouth unsightly hanging open. Sherlock and John were sat beside each other with case files spread over their laps; the only thing that was out of the ordinary was that they were both fast asleep. He silently crept over to stare at the sleeping detective and his blogger when an idea struck him.  
Finding a stack of florescent post-it notes lying on the coffee table he wrote ‘I’m not such a bad detective after all eh sunshine?’ on a particularly violently tangerine one and stuck it to the skull’s forehead. Making sure to leave no sign of his visit behind he made his way back out of the flat leaving his two best friends to catch up on their sleep. 

Just as his heel touched the last step his phone announced a new message. ‘Nice try, Lestrade. SH’ He quickly text back ‘I’ll call back later kid’ and was out the door to start his Saturday. 

When Monday came Sherlock agreed to look over some cold cases with Lestrade. Anything to stop the monotony of everyday life was worth a try. In the space of four hours Lestrade’s office had become home to Danish delicacies, burgers that could threaten blood pressure and now it would seem that pizza was on the cards. Why did everything seem to revolve around copious amounts of food? Apparently people can’t even work without food interrupting now. When he arrived home a few hours later Sherlock was faced with the choice of deciding which take-away to order from. ‘Was this a privilege?’ he thought to himself. ‘I don’t mind, you choose. I’ve got some research to be getting on with so leave mine in the kitchen please’ he said aloud. ‘Please? God, you must be busy’ John joked.

Sherlock took John’s laptop [purely because of convenience] and worked in his room until he knew the doctor would definitely be asleep. Creeping into the kitchen he smelt, before he saw, their usual Chinese. ‘150...300...25...510’ mentally cataloguing calorific content he generously poured a reasonable amount into the bin, and then arranged the rubbish so John wouldn’t see a difference. Shuffling back into his bedroom he suddenly felt exhausted and fell asleep on top of the covers fully dressed.  
3:57AM and Sherlock was just waking up as was his usual. Taking down his well hidden set of dumbbells he managed to fit in two hours straight without hearing a murmur off John. He re-hid them and went to take a shower. The sheer effort of taking a shower left Sherlock feeling incredibly weak and that just wouldn’t do. Changing into a clean suit and attempting to tame his curls drained him of what energy he did have so once he deemed himself presentable he checked the time-6:30AM- and went to make coffee. Whilst waiting for the kettle to boil he rummaged through the cupboards until he found what he was looking for: low fat crackers. Carefully taking one out and putting it on the saucer next to his cup he placed the cracker packet back in the top cupboard. 33 calories for breakfast.

When John came downstairs [7:10 sharp] Sherlock was in his usual prayer position on the sofa. ‘Find anything interesting?’ John called as he made his way to the kitchen. Sherlock’s stomach dropped. He didn’t leave the cupboards a mess did he? Surely he wasn’t referring to the Chinese, or the state of the bin? ‘The research Sherlock, get anywhere with it?’ Sherlock would have smiled if john wasn’t studying him so curiously.

When he realised that John expected a response he said: ‘oh yeah, one or two helpful things about foliage.’ ‘Well I’m meeting Greg later for a pint if you want me to pass anything on?’ John asked. ‘No I’m sure I’ll see him before then, it’s nothing urgent anyway’ Sherlock said as he began searching for his phone with his feet. ‘Oh, and I’ll be out later. I’ve arranged to meet Molly for a coffee in exchange for unlimited access to the morgue at Bart’s. By the way, my brother’s at the door’ he finished, actually sitting up now and as if on cue there was a knock on the door with something that suspiciously sounded like an umbrella handle. 

John didn’t even bother to ask the usual ‘how’ or ‘why’ questions and went to let Mycroft in. ‘Good morning John’ Mycroft smoothly said, dressed in a three piece snug fitting suit. ‘Mornin’ he replied trying to stifle a yawn, rather unsuccessfully. Mycroft confidently strode forward and stood directly in front of Sherlock leaning over him ever so slightly. To anyone else this wouldn’t have meant anything but the Holmes’ relied on minute detail so this stance held a lot of significance. Sherlock and Mycroft were fiercely staring at each other. Without moving his gaze Sherlock said ‘John, if you don’t get ready soon you’ll be late for work again’ and that was all the cue John needed to make himself scarce. As he left the living room and headed towards his bedroom John realised that it was barely 7:25 and so he actually had time to kill for once.

‘How is the rib Sherlock?’ Mycroft asked, every syllable purposely pronounced perfectly. ‘Healing’ Sherlock said in a tone dripping with boredom. Mycroft moved to sit in John’s armchair whilst he wondered how best to word his next question. His expression was one of sheer disdain when he miscalculated the height of the seat; he clearly wasn’t used to anything other than rigid office chairs. For a fraction of a second he would have said that Sherlock’s eyes looked empty and tired and lacked that usual intensity, but ever the sociopath Sherlock’s tense and defensive guard was soon back in place.  
The two brothers could have an entire conversation without uttering a single word: the twitch of a finger, tug of the lips, raise of an eyebrow, and roll of the eyes, all portrayed much more meaning than they would to an ordinary person. ‘I have cleared my schedule for six o’clock this evening,’ Mycroft eventually said, ‘please try and be punctual dear brother’ Sherlock didn’t respond as Mycroft made his swift exit out of the flat.

After John was sure Mycroft had gone he went back downstairs to remind Sherlock about the leftover pasta he should try and eat for lunch. Sherlock had a strangely sober expression on his face as he assured John he’d eat it.  
As he arrived at work ten minutes early Sarah was practically grinning at him as she told him he’d never been early once. They shared a few minutes together whilst waiting for the coffee machine to load. ‘What’s happened this morning then? Did he burn the flat down or something?’ she teased. ‘Nope, he’s actually being quite manageable these last few days. I don’t even have to nag him to eat’ John answered quite proudly. 

Sherlock had agreed to meet Molly in a Costa just outside the main high streets as to avoid the hustle and bustle of ordinary people with their ordinary lives. He arrived ten minutes early [‘best to appear early if I’m after a favour’ he thought] and ordered a black coffee, mango cooler and a poppy seed muffin. Carrying the tray, he found a quiet secluded spot outside, Molly arrived a couple of minutes later, as expected, and he waved her over. 

‘Hey, Sherlock! Looks like we’re both a bit early!’ she said with a giggle. ‘Yes, it would seem that way. I took the privilege of ordering the drinks by the way.’ That one simple gesture seemed to make her entire face light up. ‘Haven’t you got a muffin?’ she asked in between taking delicate nibbles of hers. ‘Oh yeah, I ate mine before you arrived’ he answered with a smile. ‘We should do this more often, I mean...if you’d want to’ she ventured, trailing off at the end. ‘Do what exactly?’ Sherlock asked raising an eyebrow quizzically. ‘This, me and you going for a coffee. I’ve always thought you wouldn’t go to cafés, no offence’ she hastily said.  
Taking a sip of his coffee, he began to explain how John had been helping him to know what society expected from him. ‘Normal people do this, don’t they?’ he asked gesturing between them with a worried look in his eyes. ‘Yeah, totally’ she reassured him. Companionable silence stretched for a few minutes before Molly attempted to bring the conversation back to ‘them’. ‘You’re looking well by the way’ she announced. The words seemed to just hang in the air. Sherlock didn’t even show a sign that he had heard her; he just continued to stir his coffee as though it was the most interesting thing in the world.  
Sherlock felt as though he’d been kicked in the guts, hard. He knew ‘looking well’ was a euphemism for fat, God only knows the amount of times he’d heard people say it about Mycroft. In the last twenty minutes he’d consumed five calories which he’d burn off walking home and Molly had had a 175 calorie drink and a 395 calorie muffin. He knew he should have had water.  
Conversation did resume after the awkward comment, but Sherlock was no longer bothering with his happy facade. After she had agreed to give him access to Bart’s any time he faked a call and made a quick escape.

Not caring where his feet were taking him Sherlock was having a serious internal struggle. Was he fat? He’d worked hard to remain muscular, but slender. Had he ever been slender? He knew he wasn’t thin, but when compared to others he seemed roughly average. How much did he need to lose? Five pounds? Ten, fifteen? He would need to gather data before deciding anything he concluded.

When he found his way out of his own head he realised he was nearing the Diogenes club and checked the time. 5:35pm. He sent John a quick text ‘Just stopping off to grab some dinner, then I’m meeting Mycroft SH’. He made his way into a dirty alleyway and lit a cigarette. Inhaling the damaging fumes he thought about everything, about his life, food, John, food, crime, food, his childhood and food. Not really bothering to keep track of time he wasn’t that surprised when Mycroft announced himself in the opening of the alley. He followed his older brother out of the alley and around the corner to the club. Walking in silence until the office door closed the brother’s never once met each other’s eyes. ‘Sit down, please’ Mycroft said in a falsely polite voice. Finally looking up Sherlock noticed a knowing look in his brother’s eyes. ‘What did you want to discuss, brother dearest?’ Sherlock asked with a smile. ‘No agenda I can assure you’ he replied with a shark like smile. ‘Just catching up with my only sibling, that’s no crime surely?’ Just then a tea maid entered the room carrying a tray of cakes and various teas. Mycroft nodded in her direction and waiting for the door to click closed behind her. ‘Cake? Scones are a favourite of yours aren’t they?’ he asked Sherlock. Sherlock’s mind was going mad, why was he messing with him like this? How did he even know? ‘Maybe he’s just looking for a sign to prove his theories; theories without facts are of course pointless’ he thought. ‘I’ve just had lunch with Molly, so none for me thank you’ Sherlock said, knowing full well that Mycroft knew he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. ‘If you insist’ Mycroft said, generously spreading cream and jam onto a scone for himself. Sherlock found that he couldn’t take his eyes off the dangerously delicious delicacy and had to physically move his eyes from the cake before his brother noticed the obnoxious staring. ‘Been working on anything of interest?’ Mycroft asked with a mouth full. ‘The criminal class is having a holiday it would seem. Not that they were particularly enthralling before mind...’Sherlock replied. The extremely large clock behind his brother’s desk told him that he had only been here for ten minutes. Since when did ten minutes feel so long, unless of course Mycroft had made the clock go slower on purpose but that seemed like a lot of effort for someone who ‘doesn’t do leg-work.’

‘How are things between you and John?’ Mycroft said after the silence had become unbearable even for them. ‘Fine’ Sherlock answered, staring intently at the patterns of the wood on the desk. ‘Why don’t you and John join me for dinner tonight? I only have to give the word and he’d be picked up within minutes by a driver’ Mycroft asked with a smug smile. ‘I have work to do...as always’ Sherlock mumbled. His head was pounding and he really wasn’t in the mood for one of his brother’s mind games. He wanted to go home, maybe have a warm shower and then sleep for an eternity. His body felt drained and empty; drained was bad, but empty was good. 

Meanwhile John was in a dingy pub across the other side of town waiting for the arrival of Detective Inspector Lestrade. If he was being honest with himself he didn’t really want to be here, the people were too loud, lights too bright and just the smell of ale was making him feel a bit sick, but he was a man of his word and he did regard Lestrade as a close friend. Tracing the rim of his pint glass he was wondering about the dramatic appearance of Mycroft earlier that morning, but refusing to allow his mind to go around in circles he gave up trying to work out what it was all about. He was far too sober to try and work out the mind of a Holmes. 

Clapping John amiably on the back Greg made himself known. ‘Christ you’ve nearly finished that one and I haven’t even started’ he said, gesturing towards the glass in John’s hand. ‘Bad day was it?’ he said laughing. John forced himself to smile, because really, what was there to feel so worried about? ‘Nah I’m fine’ he said, ‘never thought I’d hear myself saying this but things are just a bit too normal at the flat.’ Staring at him incredulously, Greg took his first swig of the refreshingly cool lager and leaned back in his chair. ‘How could things ever be too normal when you live with a guy like Sherlock?’, ‘no offence’ he added hastily with a sheepish smile. ‘He just seems, I don’t know... dare I say it, ordinary?’ Motioning to the waiter for a re-fill he continued, ‘he doesn’t seem as argumentative, granted he still doesn’t eat and sleep like normal people do, but the fact that he’s eating or sleeping at all worries me. If I didn’t know him better I’d think he was trying to hide something, ugh ignore me, my head’s all over the place today, it’s probably nothing.’ ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve known Sherlock a lot longer than you have, I’ve witnessed the crippling lows that he has to endure as a consequence of his extraordinary genius...you don’t think he could have relapsed? Gone back to the drugs?’ Greg finished with concern etched into his face. ‘God no, no, definitely not’ John replied just a beat too quickly. 

Thoughts were whirring around John’s mind, has Greg just voice what I’ve been afraid to think? Would Sherlock deceive me like that? Why does he need the drugs now in particular?  
‘Earth to John?’ Greg said snapping his fingers in front of John’s face. ‘Don’t worry too much, it probably isn’t that, but I will keep an eye on him’ he said with a smile. ‘Right, thanks’ John mumbled, too lost in his own thoughts; is this how Sherlock feels all the time he wondered?

Falling up the stairs to 221B, Sherlock entered the living room and gracelessly fell onto the couch. Limbs feeling like lead, even his head was too heavy to support, he decided to lie there until the darkness came to take him away.  
John decided to call it an early night after he decided it wouldn’t sound rude to excuse himself. Walking in a daze, his feet ritualistically made their way back home. Upon opening the door to their flat John saw size 11 leather Italians hanging over the edge of the sofa. ‘Wouldn’t be the first time sleep has overcome him’ he mused, making his way silently to the bathroom. After finishing his bathroom routine he went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea to rid the taste of toothpaste crossed with ale from his mouth. 

Subconsciously making two cups he edged his way into the living room and put one on to the table next to the sleeping detective. If the smell of strong tea didn’t rouse him from his slumber it was time to worry.  
When he had finished two whole chapters in his novel and there was still no sign of Sherlock waking up he went to fetch the spare blanket and threw it over his best friends sleeping form.


	2. Starving for Satisfaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second installment of 'Hungry for Happiness'. Sherlock's distorted beliefs are beginning to be more and more noticeable to those around him.

It was a Wednesday John realised when the last traces of sleep fell away. He was not looking forward to a ten hour shift at the surgery. He could understand why Sherlock wanted him to quit his job so badly, he had to admit it was boring work. ‘I can never get the hang of Wednesdays’ he thought to himself, ‘too many hypochondriacs and not enough coffee.’ 

Forcing his body into some form of coordination he made his way into the bathroom to get ready for work. Meanwhile, Sherlock was still lying on the sofa dead to the world. When John finished his simple routine of making himself presentable the last thing he expected to see when he descended the stairs was Sherlock in the same position as last night. With a smirk playing on his lips John went to make some very strong coffee and mused over how Sherlock overestimates his body- he needed sleep just as much as the rest of us. 

Greedily gulping at the caffeine fuelled coffee John’s mind was finally falling into some sort of rhythm. He realised with some astonishment that he got back to the flat a little after 9:30PM and Sherlock was already asleep then, so even if he was asleep for just half an hour before John arrived, that still meant that he had slept for ten and a half hours if not more? All the time he had lived with Sherlock’s strange sleeping patterns he had never known him to sleep for that long- ever. He was very close to becoming late for work, again, so he decided to leave the sleeping detective where he was and went to tell Mrs Hudson to check on him later. 

‘Sherlock?’ Mrs Hudson called from the bottom of the stairs when it was approaching dinner time. There was always some sort of noise coming from the flat whether it was explosions or pacing, so she thought it was odd how she hadn’t heard from him all day. He hadn’t even asked her to make him a cup of tea yet. Making her way up the stairs with purpose she felt her heart melt when she saw his sleeping form; his face was relaxed and peaceful in slumber, it was hard to imagine the same person capable of throwing someone out of a window. 

She shook his shoulder gently and Sherlock began to wake. ‘Come on Sherlock dear. John tells me you’ve been asleep all night! This isn’t like you; I’ll go and put the kettle on eh?’ She kept muttering as she made her way precariously to the kitchen. ‘Oh God no’ was Sherlock’s first thought. His head was swimming and he knew if he opened his eyes his vision would be blurred. Considering every option, he thought about pretending to be asleep and concluded that Mrs Hudson would only proceed to make herself at home until he did rouse. 

He could hear his heart pounding in his ears as he slowly made himself into a sitting position. ‘Thank you Mrs Hudson’ he mumbled when a cup of tea was pressed into his hands. Focussing on one spot on the carpet made it somewhat easier to stop himself from fainting. ‘Are you in one of your sulks Sherlock? You know they do you no good, oh and I’ve got some cakes and biscuits downstairs I always make too many for just me! I’ll pop them up later shall I?’ she twittered in her cheery tone. ‘That’ll be great, thank you’ Sherlock replied when he was sure she was done. ‘I need to see Lestrade later so I think I’m going to go get ready’ he said as a way of excusing himself. 

It was half past twelve when he stepped out of the bathroom with a towel hanging loosely on his hips. Knowing it was a Wednesday and that he had the flat to himself until at least half past six he went to check his emails before getting dressed: three unread messages off Lestrade, two off his brother and one from John. Skimming over the emails off Lestrade he decided to just invite him over because he didn’t think he had the energy to even make it down the stairs, never mind into a taxi and then to the Yard. He then deleted the emails from his brother without even reading them, predicting that they wouldn’t be worth his time nor effort. Finally he text John a simple: ‘Yes John, I am fine; and yes, I’m eating right now. SH’ He then shuffled into his bedroom and put on a navy suit with a cream shirt. 

On his way back into the living room his eyes caught the mirror on the wall and he found himself pinching every bit of excess fat he could find, his eyes were filled with disgust. The sound of the doorbell brought him out of his trance and he managed to fall into a composed position in his chair seconds before Lestrade came through the door. ‘All right sunshine?’ Lestrade asked as a way of greeting. Sherlock merely nodded in response that he’d heard him. Sitting on the edge of what is normally John’s chair; Lestrade began looking at Sherlock as if he was looking for data at a crime scene. Sherlock’s composed and blank expression let nothing slip and so he let Lestrade look for the proof he was after. When five minutes of tense silence had passed Sherlock’s nerves were on edge. ‘Can I help you Inspector?’ he spat. ‘You should know by now that that doesn’t work on me kid. I know when you mean to be hurtful and when you can’t help it.’ Sherlock picked his violin up and began to pluck arpeggios. ‘Sherlock...is everything, you know, alright?’ Lestrade asked gesturing to the detective. ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’ Sherlock countered. ‘You tell me.’ Lestrade replied with concern creasing his brow. ‘Everything is fine Lestrade. Now, do we have a case or not?’ Just as he had finished his question John’s footsteps could be heard on the stairs. 

‘Oh good you’re up, new case then is it?’ John asked to no one in particular. ‘Something like that’ Sherlock said. ‘Sarah’s let me have the afternoon off because it’s not that busy for a change’ John told Sherlock. ‘Cup of tea anyone?’ John said when he’d taken his coat and shoes off. ‘Love one tar mate, milky, three sugars’ Lestrade answered. ‘Sherlock? Do you want one?’ John repeated. ‘Oh, erm, yes, black, no sugar.’ All the time that Sherlock and John had been conversing Lestrade had been studying Sherlock silently. He was pretty certain that it wasn’t drugs- thank God- but then what else was making him so edgy? ‘How’s the rib?’ Lestrade asked him. ‘Healing’ he replied in a monotone voice. 

When the tea was made John expertly carried three mugs into the living room and sat down on the sofa. ‘What’s this case about then? Anything interesting?’ John asked Lestrade. ‘It’s a case of fraud.’ Sherlock said before Lestrade even had chance to process the question. ‘Yeah it is’ Lestrade agreed around a grin. ‘So do you need us at the yard Greg?’John asked whilst taking a sip of his tea. ‘Ideally yeah, if you don’t mind. I’ve got my own car parked across the street if you want to come with me?’ he replied. ‘Why are we still sitting here then when there’s finally something marginally interesting going on?’ Sherlock asked with annoyance and excitement lacing his tone. 

Arriving back at the flat several hours later seemed like a God send to Sherlock’s aching, protesting muscles. All’s he wanted was to sleep. ‘I don’t know about you but I could murder some toast’ John said. ‘Not for me thanks’ Sherlock said just a beat too quick. ‘You have to eat Sherlock, normal people have three meals a day you know’ John quipped back. ‘Yes, and look where that gets them’ Sherlock muttered. Rolling his eyes to the back of Sherlock’s head John got up to make some toast.  
The dulcet drones of the Emmerdale theme tune had just started when Mrs. Hudson entered the flat carrying two large plates of calorie contaminated food. She placed them in the kitchen as far away from the acids as possible and silently went to make her way out of the flat; apparently she thought they were both enthralled with this predictable rubbish that is classed as entertainment. Her hand was on the handle as Sherlock asked ‘Can I come spend some time with you?’ A smile crept on to her features making her seem years younger as she replied ‘Of course dear’. 

Following his landlady, not housekeeper, down the stairs his head began to throb. ‘Come in, come in, I’m afraid I haven’t had time to have a bit of a tidy today, but it’s still cleaner than your flat!’ she joked. Sherlock sat on a stool at the breakfast bar and traced the patterns in the marble tiles. ‘Are you okay Sherlock? You seem quiet’ she asked with some worry evident in her voice. ‘I’m fine, just got a bit of a headache.’ Before he’d even finished the bright fluorescent lighting had been dulled to a cosy warm glow doing wonders for the throbbing in his temple. They were sat like that, talking of nothing of importance for a while before Sherlock had even realised what he’d done. It seems that his guard had been let down around his motherly landlady and so his subconscious had allowed him to eat four biscuits. Four chocolate digestives. 85 calories per biscuit: 340 calories. If Sherlock was being truthful he did feel better and his heart wasn’t pounding quite so quick, but he wasn’t on this diet for nothing. ‘How could I have been so fucking stupid?’ he thought. Bringing him out of his mental berating Mrs Hudson asked ‘Are you alright dear? You seem a bit teary, mind you I think it’s this new bleach I’ve been using in the kitchen, ever so strong you know!’ ‘I’m fine; actually I’m tired so is it alright if I go to bed now?’ Sherlock asked in a voice so small and childlike it seemed absurd to have heard. Pulling him into a sudden hug and planting a kiss on his prominent cheekbone Mrs Hudson shooed him out of the flat on the pretence that there was a programme she wanted to watch coming on in five minutes. 

Not even bothering to answer John’s questioning gaze, he made his way straight into his bedroom. He just knew he was going to gain weight from that stupid, stupid mistake. 

John didn’t even realise what had happened; one minute Sherlock was on the verge of falling asleep and the next he had wanted to have tea with his landlady? Of course, John realised what a close relationship those two shared, but it was all a bit sudden. Normally, Sherlock hates Mrs Hudson’s worrying and constant natter of trivial affairs. He didn’t think anymore of it until Sherlock’s heavy footfalls were on the stairs. He was getting better with his deductions and correct him if he was mistaken, but did Sherlock seem angry? ‘Maybe he wants some time alone’ he thought as he idly flicked through the channels.  
Lying on top of the covers still in his suit Sherlock’s mind was racing. He doesn’t allow himself to eat after six o’ clock anyway because it affects his digestion and he has more chance of gaining weight so why did he go and do that? Oh God! Locking his door, he carefully took down his dumbbells. He stripped down to his underwear and stood in front of the mirror, all the while ignoring the chilling cold he could feel. Ten sets of six repetitions on each arm. Repeat for two hours. Fifteen minutes of squats. Fifty press-ups. Sixty sit-ups. At this point he was out of breath and sweating. His biceps ached and his quadriceps were showing signs of bruising but he couldn’t make himself stop. He was not going to cry. Sherlock Holmes does not cry, not even in private. He felt inexpressibly angry. He wanted to shout, scream, and hit something. Sinking to the floor he pulled his knees in towards his chest and wrapped his arms around them. He felt so weak and out of control, so helpless so small. 

He weighed himself naked as was his ritual and noticed with some pride that he’d lost two pounds since last night. He knew it was probably water weight and after tonight’s mishap it’d probably all come back. Sticking out from under his bed were his trainers. Sherlock would never be seen in a pair of ‘trainers’ but these were for a special occasion. He knew that he wasn’t going to sleep tonight regardless of how weak he felt so he decided on going for a run. It was 10:29PM which meant not many people would be around these parts of London as it was so dark and the weather was horrific. He quickly dressed in a loose tracksuit and put the trainers on. He’d easily tell John that it was a disguise for a case. Just as he was going out of his bedroom he noticed that the dumbbells were still on the floor. John cannot see them! He wouldn’t understand, no one ever did. Sherlock quickly walked across his room and picked the dumbbells up, well aware of however long it took him to do this meant less time burning calories. He hastily put them at the top of his wardrobe and went to leave again. 

The noise that punctuated his exit was enough to startle the Turners. Sherlock’s entire body sagged in defeat as he turned around to see the dumbbells spread across the floor. Before he could even begin to re-hide them John was at his side. ‘What the bloody hell was that Sherlock?!’ he demanded, every inch the soldier. Sherlock knew when John had seen them by the intake of breath and disappointed sigh that followed. ‘And why do you have dumbbells in your room?’ John asked in a quiet voice. What could Sherlock say? Does he tell his best friend that he’s trying to lose all the weight he’s carrying around like a burden? Does he lie? Or does he say nothing? Sherlock just stood there. Eyes trained on the floor. He went to walk off and out of the flat until John grabbed his arm, hard. Sherlock couldn’t contain the hiss that escaped him as the Doctor had pressed one of his bruises not so gently. ‘Are you hurt Sherlock?’ John asked in an emotionless voice. ‘Sit on the sofa and I’ll fetch my bag. Don’t even think about moving’ he commanded. So Sherlock went to sit down, but as he was sure John was in his room, he ran down the stairs to the front door and out into the brisk night air. 

His feet were slapping the wet pavement as he ran and ran and ran. Running from his anger, running from himself, running from John’s disappointment. 

John heard the front door snap shut and felt anger and sadness pulse through him. He hadn’t even asked why he was dressed as if he was going exercising. He text Sherlock a simple message: ‘I told you not to move JW’. He made his way to Sherlock’s bedroom not caring about boundaries after that particular fiasco. Stacking the dumbbells he put them on the bed. He saw the open wardrobe where they’d obviously fell from and with a second glance saw a set of bathroom scales and a pedometer.


	3. Food is Forbidden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's mind is turning against him; who can he rely on if not himself?

There were seventeen scattered music sheets, thirty-five encyclopaedias, two used scalpels, one skull, eight cushions, one teaspoon, one mug, and an armchair in John Watson’s exact line of sight. 

‘Where the bloody hell was he!?’ he kept asking himself mentally. Pacing had done him no good, it just made his leg throb and his head pound. It had been just over three hours from when he’d last seen his frustratingly amazing flat mate, but it felt more like three weeks. He checked his phone every five minutes almost ritually- knowing full well that he hadn’t received any new messages or calls. Sitting in his armchair with a frown permanently placed onto his features John finally decided that Mycroft may well be needed.

‘John, to what do I owe the pleasure?’ Mycroft asked with all the sophistication he could muster. ‘It’s Sherlock, well, we kind of, sort of had a row and now he’s gone and I don’t know where and I think he’s hurt and he isn’t answering my calls or texts and it’s been over three hours and have you seen the weather, I mean he could have froze to death for all’s I bloody know!’ John answered in one continuous breath. A few moments silence passed where Mycroft began pompously pecking at his keyboard, pulling up all the information he could find on his younger brother. ‘Ah, not to worry. Sherlock is currently with Detective Inspector Lestrade. They are sitting inside his patrol car on a car park in the Kensington area,’ Mycroft informed him. John didn’t know what to say except for a rather pathetic ‘oh’. ‘I could tell you how many cigarettes they’ve both smoked by the build up of fog on the interior front window, but it wouldn’t do to talk behind his back. You have my word that he’ll be back at Baker Street before morning John, goodnight’ and with that John only had the drone of a disconnected call for company. 

One hour earlier Sherlock had sent a desperate text to the only person that knows all of the demons he carries around and yet still chooses to talk to him. ‘Holland St. Please come. SH’ Greg was unsurprisingly still awake going over paperwork that were well past their deadlines when he received the text. Squinting at the text- he should wear his glasses more often- his heart dropped when he understood the hidden meaning. Sherlock would never say ‘please’ unless he was hurting, really hurting. Grabbing his keys, wallet and jacket he made a beeline for the front door of his flat. 

Finally turning left into Holland Street, Greg cursed when the rain starting coming down even heavier and he hadn’t even brought a coat or a change of clothes for the kid. Parking on double yellows he hastily got out of the car and began frantically searching for any shape that could resemble a broken detective. It didn’t take long for him to see a house with the front door wide open staring at him daringly. He quietly approached the front gate trying to see if there was anyone actually in there, but when a flash of lightning danced across the sky he hurried inside without a second thought; after all he did have his ID on him, he could say it was a drugs bust. The house was drowned in darkness so he felt around clumsily for a light switch when a hoarse voice interrupted him: ‘don’t.’ 

Sherlock was sat under the living room window, head in his hands. ‘Alright sunshine?’ Greg asked as though it were his duty. ‘Mm’ Sherlock hummed quietly. ‘Come on then, I don’t fancy being around here when the owners of this place return’ Greg joked in an attempt to lighten the mood. Helping him slowly stand up and walk towards the door he began to notice just how thin Sherlock had got. Of course, the kid had always been thin, but never skeletal. 

When they finally made it to the car the heater was turned on full and Sherlock’s tracksuit top was thrown haphazardly onto the back seat. Greg shed his jacket and suit jacket for him to wear which completely engulfed his fragile frame. After a few minutes of silence except for the chattering of teeth Sherlock finally spoke up: ‘My mind hurts.’ Hating himself for it, but knowing he had to ask, Greg said ‘have you taken anything kid?’ A small smirk highlighted Sherlock’s face but it was gone as soon as it had appeared. ‘If I had this would be much easier to solve’ was his reply. ‘What could I bloody say to something like that?’ Greg thought. ‘Well I know I for one am freezing and you look as though you could do with a good hot meal so why don’t we’ ‘No.’ Greg visibly sagged in his seat, ‘Sherlock we can’t stay here all night, and I’m on double bloody yellows!’ ‘There is a car park two hundred yards away on the right,’ Sherlock said sullenly staring out of the window. Greg did what he usually does and followed Sherlock’s instructions, handing him a cigarette and a lighter as he did so. 

After they’d been sat in silence with the hammering rain as background music for half an hour, Greg’s annoying, tinny ring tone announced a call. It was John. Greg cancelled the call and sighed. ‘He’ll be annoyed with me now’ he said to Sherlock. ‘Excellent deduction, there’s hope for you yet Inspector.’ ‘Sherlock, please just tell me what this, all this is about. You know you can,’ ‘yes I know I can tell you absolutely anything’ Sherlock finished. ‘Well?’ Greg prompted. ‘I couldn’t tell you’ Sherlock finally, resignedly said. Knowing not to interrupt him now, Lestrade waited for him to continue now he’d eventually began. ‘This’ gesturing to his head, ‘is a mess, my mind isn’t my own, nothing’s in order. I’ve tried to rearrange rooms and corridors but nothing will move. I’ve known for a few months that I’m not in control but what good is that? Knowing you aren’t in control of your own mind is a terrifying singular concept so that partnered with the reactions of those I tell would be too much to consider.’ Greg just sat there staring out at the angry sky. In a quiet, hopefully soothing voice he asked ‘if you aren’t in control of your own mind, what or who is?’ ‘I don’t know’ Sherlock said in a small voice. ‘What can I do Sher?’ he asked with concern dripping from the question. ‘Could you tell John so I don’t have to please?’ ‘Of course sunshine. Ready to go back now or?’ Greg asked letting the question hang in the air. ‘Yes, but please don’t let him give me food. It won’t let me have food. Food is forbidden.’ Sherlock said as the engine purred into life.

Pulling up outside Baker Street Greg couldn’t help but notice the one tear that rolled down his cheek in the glow of the street lights. ‘Come on then kid. Now or never eh’ he said as he released Sherlock’s seatbelt and unlocked his door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll update as quick as I can.


	4. Sharing a Secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How will John react?

The one thing that really annoyed Greg Lestrade was when people romanticised pain. From personal experience he knew that no word, phrase, thought, nothing, could sum up the noise of breaking bone or the noise of silent tears. Yet as he led the way up the stairs to 221B Greg’s heart was literally breaking for Sherlock. There was no other way to describe it: his insides were tight with tension and his head was swamped with sympathy. 

‘I’m usually the one following you, not the other way round’ he said as a way of breaking the deafening silence. He also thought that he’d give John a heads up that they were at the door in case he’d fell asleep or something. When the two detectives made it to the landing at the top of the stairs, the door to the flat opened suddenly making both of them swear. Sherlock was leaning heavily on Greg, at this moment in time he couldn’t care less if he gave the impression of being weak or needy, he felt like death. 

‘Get in Sherlock. Don’t even try thinking of a way to get yourself out of this one because you’re not fucking moving until you’ve told me everything AND had a decent meal. Are we clear?’ John yelled. Sherlock looked like a small child being caught red handed doing something he shouldn’t be- ‘like a deer in headlights’ was the phrase that popped into Greg’s mind. Greg whispered into Sherlock’s ear ‘go to bed sunshine.’ Sherlock tried to shuffle towards his room leaving Greg standing at the door staring resolutely at John. John couldn’t even believe what was happening! Greg didn’t have a clue what was going on, he has no right telling Sherlock to basically bloody ignore me, he thought. Before Sherlock could successfully enter his room to his deliciously warm bed John’s arm was on his dragging him back into the living room. The only thing Sherlock could do was let out a pathetic yelp as he was being man-handled by his flat mate. 

Watching the scene unfold Greg strode in-between his two friends. ‘John, I know you’re angry but this is me asking nicely: let go of Sherlock’s arm now,’ ‘Oh, so he can go and starve himself to bloody death!? I don’t think so! And this frankly has nothing to do with you!’ John screamed back. ‘John.’ The doctor had never heard Greg use such a threatening voice to anyone except criminals. But, being ever the soldier, John just wanted Sherlock to eat a sodding meal! The three men were froze, each waiting for the other to make the first move. When no one moved for over a minute John tried to drag his friend towards the sofa; Greg acted quicker than anyone could have anticipated and neatly punched John in the face. Two shocked gasps punctuated the punch and Greg literally growled ‘go to bed Sherlock.’ 

Sherlock dragged himself towards his room feeling extremely guilty. He fell on top of his bed and just lay there ready to listen to the inevitable argument. 

John and Greg were still staring at each other long after Sherlock had left the room. Greg knew he didn’t regret hitting him, and he’d do it again to anyone who was hurting Sherlock, but he did feel a tinge of sympathy for the obvious black eye that would blossom over the next few days. The only noise in the flat was the heavy breathing of both men. 

‘I think it’s best if you leave’ John finally said. ‘I’m not leaving until I know Sherlock’s going to be alright’ Greg replied. ‘Oh, so you think I’m an incapable flat mate and doctor now do you?’ John asked daringly. ‘John I did ask you to let go of him, I’ve promised myself to never let any harm come to that boy and I’m hell bent on keeping it. No one knows how much he’s hurting and dragging him around like he’s some fucking rag doll isn’t going to solve anything!’ Greg said with his voice rising. John was silent for a few minutes making sense of what he’d just heard and then he exhaled and his body sagged with the release of tension. He was no longer the angry soldier but more the compassionate doctor. ‘I’ve been such a dick, I was just so angry’ he said quietly. 

Moving towards the arm chairs the two men sat down and Greg began to think of a way of explaining what Sherlock had told him. ‘Sherlock asked me to tell you something’ he began. ‘Why can’t he tell me himself?’ John interrupted, the last traces of anger fuelling his question. ‘Maybe he’s ashamed, or scared, I don’t know but the point is he told me to tell you, that means he still wants you to know he just doesn’t know how to say it.’ Greg answered. Lying in the other room Sherlock was straining his ears to hear every word that was passed between his two friends. He was exhausted, but the adrenalin from a few hours ago was still coursing through his veins. He had never been more scared of another person’s reaction. ‘The thing is’ Greg said, ‘is that Sherlock’s not well and hasn’t been for some time.’ Not wanting to exploit the trust Sherlock had showed him, but wanting to make sure John understood he went on; ‘he told me that his mind isn’t okay, well he said “my mind isn’t my own” I don’t know what help he needs or what we can do. It definitely isn’t drugs, he told me that much. He also said that “food is forbidden”.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is only a short chapter, I've been really busy the last few days so I haven't had much chance to write. Another chapter should be up soon, and thank you for all of the positive responses. :)


	5. Lost and Lonely

Eating disorders are complex. Everyone knows that. They are often similar to a whispered myth- a taboo topic in society that people will go out of their way to ignore. People would much prefer to think that someone was ‘naturally thin’ than question if it was anything more. If anyone ever said ‘eating disorder’ the first thing that people think of is teenage girls striving to be ‘beautiful’, is that because people are narrow-minded, or is it because the majority of sufferers do actually fall into this category? Do eating disorders have anything to do with weight and food at all, or is it all deeper rooted problems? John’s thoughts could not form any sort of logical pattern or trail that he could keep up with.

When looking at life as a whole, is food all that important? There are so many experiences to have and sensations to feel that food can’t really compare to. Besides, who says that three meals a day is the norm? Aren’t we all just brought up following this tradition; it isn’t actually set in stone. Sherlock’s dreams were plagued with the normal food forbidding messages that his subconscious was constantly hammering into him. Is it any wonder that he can’t find the strength to recover if every waking and sleeping moment is filled with thoughts of food, but how do you tell people that you can’t control your own thoughts; that the only way to silence the voices is to follow their command? 

A glance at the clock told John that it was 10:15AM. For a moment he forgot about the previous night’s events and stood up to stretch his aching muscles; falling asleep in a chair never did him any good when he was younger never mind now. He was briefly reminded of being eighteen in the university library, falling asleep with his nose buried in a book for hours at a time. He saw his reflection in the mirror and frowned. A beautiful bruise was forming just above his cheekbone and suddenly he was hit with the memories of the previous night all coming back to him at once. An overwhelming sadness filled his entire being as he turned to look towards Sherlock’s bedroom door. It was still firmly shut which indicated he hadn’t awoken, or that he hadn’t left his room yet. He was surprised that he’d slept at all, never mind past 7:00AM. Moving cautiously to the kitchen to make tea even though he was sick of the sight of it, he checked his phone. He had two new messages, and 12% battery. The first message was from Lestrade, it said ‘I’ll call later. You fell asleep so I took my leave. Sorry about the shiner mate. Keep me up to date.’ He couldn’t think of anything to reply with so he carried on to the next. Shocked, he found it was from Sherlock: ‘I’m sorry.’ It was sent at 4:53AM, so he quietly made two cups of tea and went to see if he was still awake. 

Carefully making his way to Sherlock’s room he successfully opened the bedroom door whilst holding two cups in one hand. He edged his way in and smiled at the meticulously tidy room that was such a contrast to the rest of the flat. Sherlock was curled into a tight ball asleep, and any other time John would see this as a God send, but he didn’t appreciate how visible his protruding spine was through the thin sheets. He placed one mug onto the bedside table and made his way back into the living room. Deciding that a shower and change of clothes was necessary he tipped his tea away and went to his own room. 

With daylight dancing across his eyelids Sherlock could no longer will himself to succumb to sleep. The continuous thud of water falling onto tiles told him that John was in the shower. Thinking through every option he decided to get dressed quickly and then go out before John could hammer him with questions. It seemed stupid in a way because he wanted John to know, but having to explain everything and knowing how angry it’ll make him made his stomach drop. When he heard the shower turn off and the bathroom door unlock he started to panic; how long had he been lying there? Stupid stupid stupid. He had to get out of the flat. He couldn’t cope with endless questions and pitying looks. It felt as though he wasn’t alive as stupid as that sounds, he was simply existing for one purpose: to get smaller and smaller until he was nonexistent. He had no energy or time for anything other than losing weight. Everything seemed like too much effort. The smell of strong tea filtered through to his erratic mind; milk, sugar how many calories was that?! Tinny ringing. Sherlock’s mind continued to wander through nutritional content and exercise routines until he felt a cold hand on his wrist. 

‘Hey, hey, Sherlock look at me’ John was saying. Two thoughts were spiralling around Sherlock’s mind: ‘I can’t think. I can’t breathe.’ John noted that his pulse was far too fast and his breathing was irregular; he tried again to calm his friend down. ‘Sherlock, look at me, really look. How many cups of tea have I had today?’ Sherlock’s brow furrowed in an attempt to focus. ‘Come on, you’re seeing but not observing’ John said in an attempt to lighten the mood. A few moments passed as Sherlock gained control over his breathing and finally murmured ‘none.’

John made sure that Sherlock’s pulse was back to normal and helped him sit up with the help of Mrs Hudson’s excessively large pillows that were a Christmas present last year. He quickly went to finish getting dressed and grabbed a glass of water on his way back to check on Sherlock. ‘Your phone was ringing, you should check to see if it was important’ he said as a way of announcing his arrival. ‘Mycroft’ Sherlock said, with disdain dripping from the word. Gratefully sipping at the offered water Sherlock braced himself for the inevitable argument. 

Clearing his throat unnecessarily, John asked ‘are you feeling any better?’ Not knowing whether John meant last night or the recent panic attack Sherlock simply hummed in agreement letting John interpret it how he likes. ‘Right, well I’ve got a few days off work so...’ John said letting the sentence just hang awkwardly. He noticed that Sherlock was making an effort not to look at him, he was pointedly staring at the framed periodic table on the wall opposite, but even John could tell he wasn’t really seeing anything. His gaze was dead. After a few minutes of silence filled with unasked questions John decided to just go through with his plan, after all, what was the worst that could happen? Sherlock was already in a bad mood it seemed and he was in no state to go running off anywhere, that much was obvious. ‘I’m going to go finish typing up that last case and I suspect you’ll want time to get ready, so I’ll be in the living room if you need me’ he said and walked towards the door. ‘Why would I need you?’ Sherlock asked in a quiet voice that sounded as far from himself as was possible. The question took John by surprise, but he found that he already knew how to reply. ‘No reason at all’ he said as he closed the door shut. 

As soon as the door was shut Sherlock let out a breath he didn’t even know he’d been holding. He felt tired, completely, inexplicably tired. His mind had calmed down considerably, he noticed, but he was still undecided about going back to sleep or getting up to exercise. Of course, when he really thought about it there was no choice to be made. Slowly dragging his limbs to the edge of the bed he felt his vision swim. ‘Fuck’ he murmured into the silent room. 

It had been a good half an hour since John had left Sherlock alone. He hadn’t been able to concentrate on the case notes at all; his mind was fixated on making the plan work. John knew that Sherlock shut himself away from almost everyone which was why he couldn’t lose his trust, not now. If an hour passed, he decided, he’d go and check on him. 

Fifty six minutes had passed when Sherlock finally shuffled out of his bedroom impeccably dressed in a suit. John wondered how he even had the energy, but then remembered that he’d probably been functioning on empty for a long while. Sherlock walked over to his chair and sat down precariously on the edge, almost as if he were a guest and the flat was not his. He rested his elbows on his knees, hands on his chin, and closed his eyes. John had seen enough broken men to recognise one; he just didn’t know how he hadn’t seen it before. Sherlock’s shoulders were sagged, a constant frown line was formed on his forehead, his skin was practically grey and he looked exhausted. Wondering what demons his friend was facing alone, he made a point of closing his laptop lid loudly causing Sherlock to look at him for the first time. His expression could only be described as ‘sad’, and that didn’t even come close. How could a three letter word sum up weeks, maybe months or years of desperation and fatigue?

‘Can I get you anything? I could murder a cuppa myself’ John said as brightly as he could manage without sounding too false. ‘A glass of water would be appreciated,’ he replied sounding suspiciously like his usual self; ‘and caffeine tablets if you would’ he added as a second thought. Pausing just a beat too long John said ‘sure.’ When he was in the kitchen and safely out of sight John pinched the bridge of his nose as he took a few deep calming breathes. ‘How could I not have seen this?’ he thought. Sherlock had made John buy him several packets of energy tablets over the last few weeks for an ‘experiment’. Obviously, it was to stop himself from collapsing of low blood sugar. John flicked the kettle on and went to prepare Sherlock’s nutritious breakfast. When John walked back into the living room once again holding too many things than he could manage he saw Sherlock sitting with his head in his hands. ‘Here’ John said and placed the tablets next to the water on the coffee table. 

Strangely Sherlock dropped the two tablets into the water and swirled the glass before drinking it in one. John had seen him take tablets before, and he’d never had a problem with swallowing tablets properly, so without thinking he asked ‘what was that about?’ gesturing to the glass. Sherlock met his gaze and looked startled, almost as if he’d forgotten that John was in the room. ‘Erm nothing’ Sherlock said glancing around the room nervously. ‘No, but I’ve seen you take plenty of tablets, even ones of an illegal nature’ John pressed. Why wasn’t his brain bloody working? Since when was ‘nothing’ an excuse, he’d successfully lied to plenty of people and now when he needed to the most he found he was unable to. Sherlock was obviously having an internal debate about what to say and what to hold back so John patiently waited for some sort of a decision to be made. ‘What was the point’ Sherlock thought, ‘the game was up now anyway, I’ll be made to get even fatter, but as long as John knows that I was trying, he must know that I was trying to lose all of this ‘weight’ and then he’ll be less angry’ he decided. Sherlock sat up straighter and looked John in the eye, if the row of all rows was going to happen he’d at least accept it. ‘I prefer to dissolve tablets so they aren’t food.’ Sherlock said simply. ‘Sorry, what?’ John asked clearly uncomprehending. ‘If I swallow tablets it equates to swallowing food, if I dissolve them in a substance with no calories, like water, then I can almost trick myself into thinking I haven’t eat them.’ Sherlock said as if he were reciting an obvious fact. Bracing himself for shouting Sherlock started to play with his cuff buttons. ‘You do know that taking tablets isn’t the same as eating food Sherlock, and I doubt that tablets even have any calories in them’ John said making sure his voice was even. ‘They do’ Sherlock replied quietly. John couldn’t believe that the most logical man he knew was being driven mad by this deadly disorder; he couldn’t begin to imagine his other thoughts and beliefs concerning food if he was afraid of taking a tablet. ‘How?’ John asked, not sure whether he’d want to know the answer. ‘Anything that goes into my body has the potential to make me fat. Having anything inside me makes me dirty so I try to limit the amount that my body has to endure because of my own doings’ Sherlock said all in one breath. 

‘Right,’ John said after a moment of trying to understand what he’d just been told, ‘seems like you’ve thought about it a lot?’ Where was the shouting and the anger? Sherlock wondered, but then again John had always been unpredictable in a world of monotony. ‘I have’ Sherlock agreed. Sipping at his tea John decided to just go with what he’d planned to do, seeing as though Sherlock’s condition seemed to be worse than he first thought. ‘Sherlock, I need you to be completely honest with me now, okay? Do you actually want me to help you?’ John asked with his voice laced in emotion. ‘Help me to lose weight?’ Sherlock questioned with a fleeting look of confusion glazing his eyes. ‘Oh God’ John thought, he felt as though he’d been punched in the gut. ‘No, help you to get better’ he clarified. Sherlock stared at him with one of his intimidating searching stares for a few moments until he finally said ‘oh’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long since I updated; life has been hectic lately.


	6. Relapse vs. Recovery

‘So you admit that there is a problem?’ John ventured. ‘I can see that I am no longer in control, whether that is the same thing I aren’t sure’ Sherlock replied. Silence stretched between them and it was then that John’s stomach decided to mimic a whale’s mating call. Sherlock studied John with some curiosity, and in result John squirmed looking away embarrassed. ‘Don’t’ Sherlock growled. Startled at his tone, John asked with genuine confusion, ‘don’t what?’ Obviously frustrated Sherlock began to pace running his hands through his hair; ‘this’ he said gesturing to John’s vague direction, ‘don’t you fucking dare neglect your own body because of this’ he practically shouted. Before he could even stop himself, John replied with ‘but it’s completely fine if you do it?’ Sherlock stopped his pacing and stared at John with extreme intensity. ‘Do you really think I’m that stupid Sherlock? That I’d somehow blackmail you to convince you to eat? If you’d forgotten I am a bloody doctor, I am not a martyr starving himself for a great cause, I’m a friend who’s bloody concerned for your health right now.’ John added with emotion. 

‘Good then, that’s good’ Sherlock said. He sat back down with guilt drowning his posture- looking once again like a lost soul. ‘Aren’t you going to eat then?’ Sherlock asked, ‘oh, yeah, well I was, but’ John floundered. ‘Firstly, no it won’t be triggering, secondly I’ve been dealing with this far too long to be affected by the mention or smell of food, and thirdly do not pity me’ Sherlock said in a rush. Still unconvinced John thought of a plan; ducking into the kitchen to make some brunch he text Greg ‘Call Sherlock, he needs distracting JW.’ Several minutes later as he was still getting the ingredients out to make a sandwich he heard Sherlock’s phone vibrate. ‘Is there a murder?’ Sherlock answered. With a laugh Greg replied ‘no, sunshine, and you shouldn’t sound so optimistic about someone else’s unfortunate end.’ Rolling his eyes Sherlock said ‘it can hardly be seen as unfortunate if they were stupid.’ Trying to judge how Sherlock was coping or feeling was impossible Greg thought. ‘We’ll have to agree to disagree eh?’ he said. ‘I never agree to anything that is of no direct benefit to me’ Sherlock said. ‘What’s John doing, is he working today?’ Greg asked changing topic tactfully. ‘No, he’s making lunch’ he said in a flat tone. ‘I see...’ Greg replied drifting off at the end. ‘There’s something you’re not saying, you may as well spit it out’ Sherlock said, earning himself a wary glance as John entered the room again. ‘Well, I was actually calling to see how you’re doing, making sure you hadn’t caught hypothermia and all that’ Greg said keeping his tone neutral. ‘I am perfectly fine, admittedly quite bored, but unless you want to kill someone?’ Sherlock asked raising his voice at the end in hope. ‘Ha, no, besides I’d make a shit criminal’ Greg said with fondness in his voice, ‘mm’ Sherlock agreed. ‘Listen to me when I say you can do this kid. You’ve overcome far worse, and the world would be a lot worse off without your arrogant arse functioning on full power. Tell me if it’s not my place but I will do what I can to help; you’ve only got to say the word. I’ve dragged you out of far too much shit over the years but this is something I would gladly help you battle. You have no idea of your own potential, you could still achieve so much and I want you to be around to witness the difference you’re gonna make to so many people. You are a good man Shirl’ Greg said willing for Sherlock to understand his offer. A deep breath escaped Sherlock’s lips proving that he was still on the line, and then it disconnected. 

Stunned into silence, Sherlock stood rooted to the spot for a good minute until he visibly shook himself and headed to his bedroom. John had just witnessed his self-proclaimed sociopathic best friend feel loved. ‘Is he OK?’ read the text that John received moments later. ‘He’s fine I think. Whatever you said to him must have done the trick. Thanks JW’ John sent back. Finishing his sandwich and putting the plate in the sink, he went to check on Sherlock. His bedroom door was left open a fraction, so John correctly interpreted it as an invitation. Scanning the room, he saw Sherlock sat crossed legged on the floor reading from some sort of book. Edging closer but remembering not to crowd him, John sat on the edge of the bed rather awkwardly. ‘What’s that you’re reading?’ John asked. ‘Diary’ was Sherlock’s murmured response. ‘Yours I take it?’ he asked. ‘Not anymore’ Sherlock said, handing it to John with a disgusted look on his face. ‘Can I read it?’ John asked, and he received an imperceptible nod. Flicking to the front of the moleskin journal he suddenly recognised the handwriting as Sherlock’s. Acting as though he hadn’t noticed the tear tracks down his best friend’s face he began to read. ’10:20AM – sixty squats & a glass of water. 1:00PM- two mile chase. 7:00PM- cigarette. 8:10PM- cup of black tea.’ A horrible feeling began to spread in John’s chest; there were no dates so it was hard to tell when the diary started, but there were enough entries on every page for it to be over a year. Not wanting to seem too invasive he closed the book and put it on the bed next to him. He risked a glance at Sherlock who was staring at him with interest despite the utter sadness radiating from him. Visibly trying to get control of his breathing, Sherlock said ‘it ends now. Call Mycroft, tell him to arrange some facility or something, lord knows he’s good at interfering with my life.’ Tears were freely flowing down his prominent cheekbones as he whispered: ‘I want to be alive.’


	7. Mind Over Matter

John had no hesitation in reaching out and fiercely enveloping Sherlock into a hug. ‘It’s okay, it’s going to be okay’ he murmured over and over into Sherlock’s curls. 

An orchestration of colours bounced around the room; the sun slightly setting causing spectrums of light to reflect off every surface. After an indeterminable amount of time Sherlock’s breathing seemed to even out and he was left feeling numb once more. He’d decided a long time ago that emotions were not logical; how could it be that it felt better to feel anger, sadness, rage than nothing at all? At least feeling something proved that you cared, that you were alive. 

The silence felt like a blanket over the two friends. Something that kept them safe from the world. Something to protect them.   
Two sharp knocks on the flat door brought both of them out of their thoughts. ‘How on earth can he make a knock sound posh?’ Sherlock asked the room at large. John stood up to leave the room, not wanting to leave his friend, but unwilling to let Mycroft take matters into his own hands. Looking at Sherlock, John thought it was obvious to anyone who knew him that he was acting; he was obviously trying hard not to cry. ‘Do you want to, you know, stay in here?’ John asked quietly. ‘I wouldn’t subject you to spending time with my brother unless it was an experiment,’ Sherlock replied in an attempt to lift the sombre mood. The effort it took to drag himself out into the living room was quite frightening, Sherlock thought. 

‘Mycroft’ John said in form of greeting. ‘John’ Mycroft said back. Both men then turned their attention to the frail looking man precariously making his way to his armchair. ‘I would like to speak to my brother John, if it’s not too much trouble’ Mycroft said with a polite nod. ‘Er yeah sure,’ John said uncertainly, already reaching for his jacket and keys. ‘No, whatever you have to say, say it in front of John.’ Sherlock said in a tone that left no room for discussion. ‘Very well’ Mycroft replied with a tight lipped smile. He made his way to the settee and sat down with as much dignity as he could manage considering the lack of support it provided. John obediently sat in his arm chair and was glancing between the two brothers wondering which one would speak first. After a few moments of tense silence, Mycroft made the first move. ‘I understand that you’ve decided to ask for help, brother mine,’ he said. Sherlock minutely flinched at the word ‘help’ but continued to stare at his brother, knowing he wasn’t quite finished with his rant. ‘If you’d have come to me sooner I could have helped you. You knew what was happening and you just let it unfold didn’t you?’ he pressed on in a silky sweet tone. Sherlock broke the eye contact and feebly looked at his hands that were folded on his knees. ‘Don’t’ John said. ‘Excuse me?’ Mycroft asked in obvious irritation at having been interrupted. ‘Don’t you bloody dare even insinuate that this is somehow his fault, that he’s to blame. This is no time for mind games and quite frankly you should grow up’ John said, cheeks flushed at his sudden outburst. Risking a glance at Sherlock, John saw that his mouth was turned up which was hopefully a sign of appreciation. After giving John his best glare, Mycroft quietly said ‘indeed’.

‘How soon can you arrange something?’ Sherlock asked in a voice void of emotion. Carefully looking at the earnestness of his brother’s expression, Mycroft said ‘twenty-four hours’. When it became clear that Sherlock wasn’t going to say anything else, he added ‘I’ll send a car tomorrow evening, and obviously you’ll need to pack a bag’. Sherlock just nodded. Clearing his throat, John asked ‘where is it he’ll be going?’ ‘A facility near Kingston upon Thames, not too far, but far enough’ Mycroft answered. ‘Right’ John said, ‘I assume he’ll need a medical examination before he can be admitted?’ Sherlock looked utterly terrified at that fact. ‘That is correct’ Mycroft said staring him down. ‘Could I do it? As an acting GP. I can draw up all of the relevant documents’ John said rather quickly. Looking back at his brother, Mycroft smiled and said ‘excellent suggestion’. Feeling a lot easier with himself John got up to get a glass of water, knowing that Sherlock would probably need one along with some pain medication too. Just as the tap started running he heard raised voices; the realisation hit that he was the only one keeping the peace in that room. He faltered between wanting to give them privacy- they were brothers regardless of what they say-, and storming back in the room to bang their heads together. Deciding to finish getting the drinks and tablets, he caught the end of a rather long list of expletives flowing out of the detective’s mouth. Edging his way slowly back into the living room he saw Mycroft storming out of the door with the ridiculous umbrella by his side and Sherlock screaming ‘you fucking did this!’

The door slamming punctuated his sudden exit. ‘Going to tell me what the hell that was about?’ John asked, handing Sherlock a glass of water and two painkillers. Accepting the pills with a small ‘thanks’, Sherlock shook his head. ‘I don’t normally agree with you’ John said falling back into his chair, ‘but your brother is a massive dickhead.’ Sherlock genuinely smiled, something John hadn’t seen in god knows how long; ‘that he is’ he agreed. ‘Right, well I suppose we should start getting things ready for, you know...do you want to do the examination first or get the bag packed?’ John asked. It was clear that Sherlock had ventured off into his own mind, the glazed over look in his eyes oozed pain and sorrow. How could something as necessary and brilliant as his mind be so self destructive? He thought. Unwilling to leave Sherlock to fight his demons alone for any longer, John snapped his fingers in front of Sherlock’s face and tried again: ‘Sherlock, you with me?’ His eyes flicked to John’s face and widened in recognition. ‘Yes, sorry,’ he said. ‘No problem, it seems I lost you for a minute then’ John replied with a rueful smile. Before John could repeat his question from earlier, Sherlock asked ‘Can I have something to eat please?’ The question was so unexpected that John stood there for a few moments gaping, wondering whether he’d heard correctly. The strength it must have taken to admit that he did need food was astonishing, he thought to himself. Not wanting Sherlock to change his mind or realise what a big deal this actually was, John tried to feign normalcy. ‘Suppose I’m expected to make it too eh?’ he said with a smile, hoping that Sherlock could tell he didn’t mean it. ‘You’ve got to be of some use, John’ Sherlock said back with a small smile of his own. Making his way towards the kitchen with a smile still plastered on his face, John called out ‘anything particular you fancy?’ Knowing not to trust himself to suggest something as it would obviously be low calorie and low fat, Sherlock replied ‘anything is fine.’ So, John set about the task of rustling something up that was nutritious, but not too calorie laden as it would scare Sherlock. He finally settled on a cheese sandwich on brown bread, his logic was that the brown bread would cancel out the butter he used. The biggest decision was whether to slice the sandwich. If he left it whole would it over-face his friend, or if he cut it into two halves would there be too much for him to cope with. Finally, slicing it in two he carried it back into the living room and hoped for the best. Sherlock was still in the same position, staring at nothing in particular. ‘Thank you’ Sherlock murmured. ‘No problem, I’m just going to nip downstairs and see if Mrs Hudson needs anything from the shop, alright?’ John said. ‘Yes, thank you’ Sherlock replied quietly. They both knew that John was actually trying to keep out of the way whilst Sherlock eat his first meal in however many days. 

As soon as Sherlock could hear the muffled exchanges from downstairs, he set about the task in front of him. His subconscious informed him that he was about to eat anywhere between 350 and 400 calories. Trying to block out the negative voices he picked up one half of the sandwich and took a bite. His urge to spit it straight out was ridiculous, he knew he needed food soon or his body was going to shut down, so why was his mind telling him any different? Reluctantly chewing and chewing and chewing he noticed how it tasted like cardboard. He was quite sure he wasn’t eating cardboard, so why did it taste like that? The waxy, slimy texture made his stomach churn, but if he didn’t eat now they’d only force feed him tomorrow. It took all of his self control to carry on when his mind was screaming at him to stop. 

John spent thirty minutes with Mrs Hudson making small talk, and earning himself several favours she needed doing. When he was sure that enough time had passed he made his excuses and slowly made his way back up to the flat. When he walked in as casually as possible, he noticed that Sherlock still hadn’t moved and that he was still mechanically working his way through his meal. He hadn’t even managed to eat half in all that time John had been gone. But that was not for lack of trying; there were tears threatening to fall as he took another miniscule bite. John didn’t know whether to sneak back out and leave him to it, or whether to sit with him and support him, or whether he should tell Sherlock that he’d had enough if he wanted to stop. Before he had the chance to decide his phone started ringing causing both men to start. It was always a task in itself just trying to locate the thing so when Sherlock helpfully supplied ‘under the settee’ he was glad that he hadn’t got lost in his mind again. ‘Hello?’ John answered whilst keeping an eye on Sherlock. ‘Hey John, it’s Greg. I was just wondering how things are with Sherlock, is he any better?’ Wandering into the kitchen John replied ‘err yeah he’s okay’- not wanting to betray Sherlock’s trust and reveal too much, but hoping the uncertainty would be noticeable. ‘Oh, you’re with him aren’t you? Would he mind if I came over later?’ Greg asked. John stepped back and went to call Sherlock, but Sherlock said ‘tell him to come over in an hour or so’. ‘How the hell did he know it was me?’ Greg asked obviously confused. ‘No idea’ John said with a laugh. ‘His dulcet tones aren’t that difficult to recognise, sorry for being observant’ Sherlock murmured. ‘Right, well I’ll see you in an hour then’ Greg said. ‘Yep, see you later’ John replied. 

Putting his phone in his pocket, John noticed with some relief that Sherlock had ate three quarters of the sandwich before pushing the plate away from himself. He took the plate wordlessly and tipped the remains into the welcoming mouth of the bin.   
Sherlock did have to admit that he didn’t feel quite as lightheaded, and his heartbeat wasn’t so threatening in his ears now. But the voices were as strong and relentless as ever. ‘I’m going to go pack a bag’ Sherlock said, precariously standing up and making his way to his bedroom. ‘Want any help?’ John asked. ‘Mm’ Sherlock said in agreement. Not knowing how long Sherlock would be away for, John suggested using his old holdall. When all of the necessities were packed: four suits, four sets of pyjamas, four pairs of Italian leathers, four silk dressing gowns, four changes of underwear, essential toiletries and his laptop, the difficult decision of choosing what books would be needed had to be made. ‘The History of Bee-Keeping?’ John asked, ‘Oh yeah. I know it word for word, but it is still an entertaining read,’ Sherlock replied. After half an hour everything on the list had been checked and the bag was finally sat in the hall, fastened. 

Trying to get out of the medical examination was ridiculous and foolish, but Sherlock couldn’t help himself feeling nervous. It took less than the hour John had said it would, which was one good thing he supposed. John made sure to do a thorough exam regardless of his relationship to Sherlock; he made notes when he checked the head and neck, abdominal area, hair, nails and limbs. He also listened to his heart and lungs. He noted to no surprise that Sherlock’s blood pressure was seriously low and his heart rate was slow. He honestly tried to keep a professional manner when seeing Sherlock in just his underwear, but the fact that there was literally nothing to him and he believed he was practically obese was worrying. 

Just as Sherlock slipped the should-be tight fitting shirt over his shoulders, the doorbell rung downstairs. ‘Christ, I forgot Greg was coming’ John said as he slipped the forms into an envelope. As John went to let him in, Sherlock picked up his violin from it’s case and revelled in the familiar weight. As the two men made their way up the stairs towards the flat, the most beautiful melody began soaring over them. Both men walked in silently and sat down, whilst Sherlock stood against the window drawing note after note out of his violin. His silhouette was outlined by the moonlight now flooding the living room. ‘He always did love an audience’ Greg mouthed to John as they sat back enjoying the melodic serenity. John smirked in acknowledgement and continued to look at Sherlock in awe. After about fifteen minutes, the music reached a gripping crescendo only to fall into the depths of a sombre final chord. 

‘Lestrade, I’m afraid I won’t be able to give you the answers to any more crimes for an indeterminable about of time’ Sherlock said with his back to the room. Risking a glance at John who just nodded, Greg asked ‘How come sunshine?’ Finally turning around still cradling the beloved instrument, Sherlock looked at the skull and said ‘I’m going out of town for a while.’ Greg interpreted Sherlock’s vagueness as a plea for privacy because he was embarrassed. He decided to change the topic and said ‘I don’t know how the Yard’s gonna manage without you firing deductions left, right and bloody centre’ to which Sherlock replied ‘Indeed.’

Sherlock went to bed not long after and left John to talk to Lestrade. John explained how Sherlock would be going to an inpatient clinic, one that Mycroft had chosen. Greg had the decency to grimace as soon as Mycroft’s name was mentioned. ‘Interfering bastard he is’ he murmured. ‘Mm’ John said in affirmation. The two friends talked about nothing in particular late into the night. When John had yawned for the sixth time Greg took his leave promising to ‘give Sherlock a call’. 

The detective and his doctor both roused around midday. They were obviously more tired than they’d thought. Sherlock took the role of tea-maker and placed two crackers on the saucer next to his cup. If he was going to fight this, he thought, he was going to really bloody try. John watched on as he managed to eat the first with seemingly no problems, but the second he was staring at for nearly ten minutes before he threw it across the room and stormed to the bathroom. John sighed and got up to follow his friend. Knocking on the door, he tentatively pushed it open; ‘Sherlock?’ ‘What?’ Sherlock snapped. ‘Going to tell me how much of a failure I am?’ Sherlock said, venom lacing his tone as he stared at his reflection. ‘No,’ John said calmly, ‘I was going to say that it’s fine. The fact that you tried shows you’re willing, you can’t expect to just snap out of this mindset suddenly. Your intentions are what matter most.’ Sherlock seemed to calm down considerably at John’s words, ‘it’s one cracker though’ he said sullenly. ‘It’s one step’ John corrected. 

As expected the day seemed to fly by in a mixture of anger, sadness and irritation. At four o’ clock a car horn sounded, and John willed himself not to cry, not while Sherlock’s here. Sherlock wrapped himself in the familiar Belstaff and blue scarf, and picked the holdall up, looking like he was going into battle John thought. Technically it was a battle, Sherlock’s battle against himself. ‘Thank you, John’ Sherlock said in the doorway. ‘I’m proud of you, you know’ John whispered. ‘Expect a few texts when I’m bored beyond belief’ Sherlock said with a small smile. ‘My phone’s not on when I’m working’ John warned. But both men knew that he kept it on just for Sherlock. ‘I’ll visit when I can, there’s bound to be something you’ve forgot’ he added. ‘Looking forward to it’ Sherlock said and with that he descended the stairs into the back of the waiting car.


	8. Secrets can scar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning of mentions of child abuse in this chapter and from here on in. Explicit descriptions of eating disorders and inpatient clinics as well.

‘And where did these food issues stem from, Mr. Holmes?’ the nutritionist asked in a falsely bright voice. Sherlock looked her up and down and then looked across the room completely ignoring her question. Rain was hammering against the window pane, ‘how ironic’ Sherlock thought. He was sat on a settee and she was in an arm chair, probably in an attempt to make the interaction seem less important and more informal he duly noted. ‘Are we going to spend this time in silence?’ she prompted. ‘Depends whether you’d have the courtesy to stop talking’ Sherlock said with a false smile. 

There was one thing that could not be argued, and that was that Sherlock was clever. The only question was how far being clever led to being deceitful? He saw it as everyone against himself, he knew he couldn’t trust anyone in this place; if you let slip to a psychiatrist about how you see yourself they’ll speak to the nutritionist then the nutritionist will speak to the clinician. ‘Some things are best kept to yourself’ Sherlock thought mildly as he lay in bed that night. The only thing he was looking forward to was getting to see John tomorrow; he knew that standard procedure meant that he couldn’t have a visitor until he had been there a week so he had purposefully left his bee-keeping book on the living room table. ‘If John didn’t pick up on the hint, he really was quite stupid’ Sherlock’s last thought was as he felt himself being dragged under by sleep.

Morning came and John found himself awkwardly folded in his armchair. Everything ached and he really didn’t want to face a day alone in the flat only to be reminded by what a useless doctor and friend he had been. He decided to try and grab a few hours extra sleep in his bed, so he yawned and stretched and set about locating his phone in case Sherlock had text. From experience he knew that phones were not allowed in inpatient clinics, but Sherlock was nothing if not sneaky and he more than anyone would be able to hide his phone. He found his phone on the floor-again- and made his way up to his bedroom where he plugged it in to charge. He gratefully fell on top of the covers and let himself drift off before any more negative thoughts could plague his mind. 

It was 8:00AM and Sherlock was precariously perched on the edge of his bed, the way you would sit if you were visiting someone, the way you would sit if you knew you didn’t belong there. His room was boring to say the least: four white walls, a white wardrobe, a white desk and chair, even the carpet was only slightly off-white. The only plus side of his brother’s interference was that he had a semi-ensuite: a small shower cubicle was in the corner of his room. He’d decided to wear one of his suits, black suit with a dark blue shirt underneath. Under no circumstances was he going to dress ‘comfortably’ and ‘make himself at home’, this was a million miles from home. Home was Baker Street and mugs of tea around the clock and his violin there whenever he needed to escape from reality and his scales and weights and diaries...His thoughts trailed off into some dark corridor of his mind, cruel voices ever present telling him how he was a failure and that this was all a mistake. A soft knock on the door was what brought him out of his own mind; ‘even the knocks at this place were pathetic, too weak, and too apologetic as if I’m going to break’ he thought viciously. ‘What?’ he said aloud. ‘Mr. Holmes, all patients are required to attend breakfast in the dining room at 8 ‘o’ clock’ a young nurse said with an overly enthusiastic smile. ‘To clarify: I’m expected to sit in a room full of idiots and eat breakfast with you lot watching over me like vultures?’ Sherlock spat. The young nurse simply blinked and continued to recite the rules ‘Mr. Holmes breakfast is at 8 ‘o’ clock every day, if you’d follow me please.’ Begrudgingly standing up making it look like the world owed him a favour for this dire downturn of events, Sherlock walked towards the nurse and looked down on her, ‘I may have asked for help, but that does not mean I asked to be spoke to like an idiot. Repetition is unimaginative, annoying and dull, much like your eyebrows,’ he said with a polite incline of his head. The nurse kept a straight expression and continued with ‘it’s just this way,’ walking behind her as slow as he could without seeming childish he acknowledged that Mycroft did choose well after all. 

When he eventually made it to the dining hall he noticed that there were twenty nine people already sat around bowls of- was that porridge? Sherlock gracefully took the only empty chair and stared resolutely at the wall opposite him as if it was the most interesting crime scene he had ever had the good pleasure of seeing. The table they were all sat at was a long rectangle, fifteen chairs on each side and Sherlock just had to be in the middle of all of this stupidity, didn’t he. Even though he kept telling himself that he was far cleverer than any of these common people he couldn’t help stealing glances at people to see if he really was the biggest one there. Gradually yet effectively collecting data, he concluded that he still had weight to lose if he wasn’t going to stick out like a sore thumb in this dump. It felt as though hours had passed when his breakfast was placed in front of him, though of course it would have been a matter of minutes with how obsessed these are with regulations. A glass of orange juice [anywhere between 80 and 120 calories], a yogurt which had been poured into a bowl [probably 100 calories, but to be safe we’ll say 150], and a bowl of grey mush [265 calories easily with all that milk.] So, 535 calories for breakfast. ‘How on earth can anyone justify eating that much in a day, never mind one meal!’ he thought ruefully. He knew who was to blame for this: society, if such stupid rules and norms didn’t exist about calorie limits then he wouldn’t be in this position now. 

‘Would you like a new bowl of porridge Mr. Holmes?’ a nurse asked who had suddenly appeared at his elbow. The only answer he gave was a look of utter contempt, then he turned back to look at the wall. Four times the porridge was replaced and four times it was left sitting there looking as vile as it tasted. He couldn’t say for certain how much time had passed, but the next time he came out of his mind palace he found he was the only one sitting at the table with a nurse sitting directly opposite him and she was apparently talking. Mustering the effort to decode what rubbish she was going on about he heard ‘it’s for your own good, you know that.’ When Sherlock gave no sign of responding the nurse tried another tactic ‘how about you have a milkshake then?’ Feeling bile rise in the back of his throat he closed his eyes and breathed through his nose. He was fighting a serious urge not to throw up all over this stupidly over clean table when he felt a hand on his. ‘Do not touch me’ he said in a deafening whisper, ‘is that clear?’ he asked looking her in the eyes. That was when he saw it: the small smile and nod of someone sympathising, pitying him. She removed her hand and looked at him with an open expression, ‘how fucking false’ he thought. ‘What flavour then?’ she asked just as he had closed his eyes again trying to find some peace. For a second he hadn’t a clue what she was going on about so he asked ‘flavour of what?’ She smiled –again- and said ‘the milkshake you want, of course.’ Then that was it that was the dangerous turning point of letting anger burn you from the inside out, corrupting your thoughts and rationality and allowing it to surface, to overflow with no direction or control. Sherlock took a definitive deep breath and said ‘The uncomfortable Spanx you are wearing are evidently not working, I could recommend a far more effective way of cutting inches off those hips. Oh and by the way drinking diet cola every once in a while is fooling no one, there’s no point cutting back on liquids when you’re consuming far more than any rational human being. Hard to break bad habits hm? Ooh and then it gets good, you do this job because you were a bulimic in your teenage years. How did I not notice? Little tip though, if you haven’t even got the control not to put it in your mouth in the first place, you really should have looked for a better pass time. I really do apologise that I have more will power than you, bet it really eats you up. Mind the pun.’ The nurse had blinked a few times to show that she had heard him, but there was no other response at all. And that was the worst thing that could have possibly happened; Sherlock needed someone to argue with, someone to vent to, he didn’t need blank faces and plastered on smiles. The thought crossed his mind that everyone was deaf and he was the only sane one in this place, but then a milkshake was gently place in front of him. ‘Strawberry is normally a favourite’ the nurse said, showing no signs of discomfort. He felt his pulse quicken and his blood boil: ‘Are you bloody stupid!? I am not eating that corrupted calorific poison’ he yelled, voice getting louder with every word. He stood up suddenly and heard his chair fall to the ground. Pacing the length of the room he was spouting profanities and insults in any order, he needed to empty his mind and now was apparently the time. As he turned to begin yet another length of the room he saw John standing in the doorway with his chin tilted in the way that only a man of military does. 

John still had the ability to silence a room and he used this to his utmost advantage. Sherlock still marvelled at the fact that John was the only person who could help to make sense of his thoughts when his mind was in a state of chaos. His mind suddenly felt much calmer and he realised that he’d probably done quite a bit of shouting. ‘You aren’t allowed in here. You should go to the reception at the front of the building if you have an enquiry.’ The nurse suddenly said, whose name Sherlock hadn’t bothered noticing. He thought it was very telling how short she was with John, yet she was a completely different person again with the patients. Maybe his observations did get to her after all. John crossed the room with purpose and thrust a folded piece of paper into her hand. The nurse had half risen out of her chair when John had started walking, obviously unsure of his intentions, but she begrudgingly broke eye contact to read whatever was on the paper. Her eyes greedily scanned the cursive handwriting and she said ‘D11 then, down the corridor on your left.’ 

Sherlock had been watching the exchange curiously, wondering who was going to snap first. The tension was clear in John’s solid frame, his arms unnaturally hanging by his side as if it was taking a lot of effort to keep them there. With a single nod John turned to walk out of the room and said ‘Come on, Sherlock.’ Sherlock did not need to be told twice, he walked quickly until he was side by side with his friend. They walked in silence until they came to the allocated room and John slid a key card over the reader and led them both inside. 

The room was a large office with a mahogany desk and bookshelf and had complimentary furnishings in shades of deep red. Even though he had wanted nothing more than to see John over the last twenty four hours, now they were face to face he didn’t know what to say. They stared at each other for a few moments before John put The History of Bee-Keeping not so gently on the desk. ‘Thank you’ Sherlock said, suddenly uncertain of the strength of his own voice. Sherlock was just about to point out that John had put on two odd socks when he felt his vision beginning to fade. His knees were suddenly weak and his head felt too heavy to keep up. He unflatteringly fell onto one knee in an attempt to walk to the chair and then John’s steady hands were holding him up leading him to lean against the desk. ‘Eat this,’ John said roughly. Sherlock was just on the verge of protesting as John said, ‘you have to this time Sherlock, you have no choice.’ Panic and fear were rising and rising within him. He opened his eyes to explain exactly why he shouldn’t eat when he saw the low fat cracker that was being offered. It was such a surprise that he forgot the argument he was trying to make and the words died in his throat. ‘You’ve done this before, come on’ John added. Cautiously taking a miniscule nibble on the corner Sherlock visibly saw John relax. So that was what he was worried about, he noted. He slowly ate the entire cracker and then made his way to the chair with the help of his ever trusted doctor. 

‘You are a man of evidence, you need data. Isn’t this all the proof you need to see that you’re killing yourself for Christ sakes?’ John said, losing control of his emotions as he went on. ‘You admitted that you need help Sherlock, you aren’t the same person when you’re only half functioning. What use would you be to Scotland Yard now?’ he said. ‘I’d be more use than Anderson’ Sherlock quietly said which earned him a laugh from John. ‘That’s probably true but-’ Sherlock interrupting with ‘definitely true’, John acknowledged his point with a nod but carried on making his point: ‘but you aren’t as good as you can be when you’re fainting left right and centre.’ Sherlock looked aghast at the word ‘fainting’, he certainly did not ‘faint’, even the thought made his nose wrinkle in disgust. John rolled his eyes and asked ‘Why didn’t you eat at breakfast?’ Good question, Sherlock thought. ‘I cannot have that many calories in one sitting, I thought that much was clear’ he said quickly, looking anywhere but at John. John hummed in thought and dragged a chair over so he was sitting opposite his friend. ‘What is a suitable amount then?’ John gently asked. ‘I don’t know’ he replied, staring at his hands. Sherlock took a deep, steadying breath and said ‘If I haven’t got the strength to resist food, what have I got? I’m not my intelligence or my personality or my lifestyle, but I am my weight. People see my weight before they know anything else about me and I just don’t want to be this hideous size any longer. My father always said I’d never lose weight, never be any different, always be weak and susceptible to hate. I need to be perfect John and people just don’t understand that.’ John got the impression that he had a lot of things to work through before he had any hope of recovering completely; he also thought that he had probably been desperate to get those thoughts off his mind for a long time. John thought carefully about his next words ‘Do not think that I am ignoring the topic Sherlock, because I really aren’t and I’d be happy to listen to anything you’d be willing to say, but shouldn’t you raise these issues with your psychiatrist? I may be too involved to remain objective about the situation.’ Sherlock looked him in the eye and said ‘What did the note say?’ A sudden topic change was a skill that Sherlock had mastered and living with him meant that John didn’t think twice about following his trail of thought. ‘Ha, well that was Mycroft’s idea. A place like this unfortunately won’t allow me to come in to drop off The History of Bee-Keeping, if you can believe it.’ Sherlock nodded and seemed vaguely lost in thought. It was as though John was seeing him for the first time since he had entered the building and he somehow seemed much thinner, though of course the change of setting meant that John’s perception had changed too. He frowned to himself and wondered how long it would take before the old Sherlock would be back. John immediately noticed when Sherlock had changed from just thinking to wandering his mind palace, so he started to have a poke around the office that they had been sent to. The book shelf held nothing of interest and all of the drawers were locked, not that John would have looked in them, he was simply seeing how far the security in this place stretched. 

Ten minutes or so had passed with John bumbling around and Sherlock sitting there vacant and oblivious to everything and everyone. ‘I was abused as a child’ Sherlock said unexpectedly, he then took a harsh breath as though he had been under water. Staring at the look on John’s face Sherlock’s eyes filled with panic.


	9. Sadness, sarcasm and snide remarks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the dramatically long update. But my exams are over and I have three months free to dedicate to writing so expect more chapters soon. Anyone who has stuck with this fic: thank you.

"You better use whatever almighty privilege your bloody job gives you and get me access to Sherlock right this minute Mycroft," John practically shouted into his phone. He was heavily leaning against the wall outside of the clinic after "Emily" had said that Sherlock had an anger management class that he couldn't possibly miss. 

"Go to the waiting area and I'll send someone to you shortly" Mycroft replied, surprisingly not questioning what John's sudden need to see his brother was for. Before John could even form a response the line was dead; he began to walk quickly towards the waiting area with only his thoughts for company. He honestly did not want to think about it, if he did he'd imagine the worst possible scenario and likely end up joining Sherlock in that damned anger management class. 

He sat on a firm leather chair that sighed when he dropped into it. As a doctor he was often amazed at the capabilities of the human body, the lengths it could go to still left him in awe yet what the human mind was capable of appalled him beyond words. He had this soul stiring feeling of repulsion towards being a human being. How could someone abuse another person? What the fuck must go through someone's mind to even consider it? Ten minutes had passed and he was still the only person in this room. He strode towards the water fountain out of a desire to demonstrate his feelings physically- sitting calmly on a chair somehow did him no justice. He hastily filled a polystyrene cup with cool water and noticed his hands were shaking. Some of the water spilt down the side of the cup in ribbons.

"Doctor Watson?" a quiet voice called out. 'Why did everyone adopt a hushed tone in this place?' he thought irritability, yet aloud he said "yes?" The woman who had entered looked no older than fourteen and that's being generous. "Room A6 is available for you" she said in a sweet tone. "Right, okay. That's on the left wing isn't it?" John asked, glad something was finally happening. "Take a left out of here and then another left and you'll see rooms A1-A20" she said as though it were obvious and handed him a swipe key. "Thanks" he mumbled already turning to go.

When he found the room- this place was worse than central London for all of the back alleys and shortcuts- he let himself in and pushed the door to but not shut. He was only in there a few minutes when Sherlock tentatively knocked on the door and entered. Not quite managing his usual stride Sherlock folded himself into a chair opposite John and said "I must thank you for getting me out of that class, I'm beginning to wonder whether the people in here are purposely trying to annoy me." They met each others eye, both obviously not knowing how to approach the subject at hand. 

"Sherlock" John began, unsure of what he was going to say but knowing that something had to be said. "Forget it please" Sherlock said. John threw him a quizzical look clearly confused at what he was referring to. So Sherlock continued, "forget I said anything, I didn't intend to, and it certainly isn't important." John felt anger flooding his veins, "how on earth is it not important!?" Carrying on as though he hadn't been interrupted Sherlock said "I'm not going to deny it because it's obvious to even an imbecile that what I said is true." Struggling to keep up John raised a hand to silence his friend and said "how is it obvious? Do you mean by your reaction earlier?" A look of pure condescension was awarded to John and he replied "your observation skills are improving, but no, more importantly I was referring to my general behaviour, personality, mannerisms," he suddenly lost all of his colour and resolutely stared at the floor when he said "he tainted me."

Sherlock's mind was screaming at him to shut up, he'd never voiced any of the details to anyone except his skull when he was still a child. He knew that he was approaching one of those moods where words flow out of your mouth and the thoughts are coming back too quickly to articulate properly and no words can sum up the extent of what he wants to say. John did not recognise the man sitting across from him, he was like someone possessed for want of a better phrase. His hands were in a vice-like grip on the arms of the chair causing his knuckles to turn white and his eyes were darting around the room. Slowly reaching out a hand, John attempted to bring Sherlock out of his head. 

Brushing his thumb over the back of Sherlock's hand he murmured "hey it's okay Sherlock." Their eyes slowly found each other and they spent a moment making silent proclamations of how everything will turn out okay in the end. 

Taking a deep, soul shuddering breath Sherlock decided that if someone else knew then maybe his actions would be explicable, he might not be called a freak if people just understood for once. "John" he began but the word fell flat against the thick leaden atmosphere. "Do you want to know?" He asked in a quiet voice completely unlike his normal baritone. "If you're ready to tell me, and if you're sure that I'm the right person to be speaking to then I'll do my best to support you and help you work through this" John said. "Ok," Sherlock said then his eyes lost focus and he was twelve again and his father's footsteps could be heard approaching, forever getting closer. 

"Growing up I was always the one put on a pedestal. Probably because I was the youngest mummy and father expected the most from me. I wouldn't have dared to act in the same way as Mycroft, I was told I was 'too special' to -heaven forbid- act like a child. Every day I would finish school and have a two hour lesson for the violin, but why do parents have to be so toxic? Having to play set pieces all for a stupid exam didn't excite me or give me a thirst for music at all. I only played because I feared the consequences that my refusal would cause." John decided to interrupt whilst they were in relatively safe territory, "how come you still play now then? I mean if you didn't like it you could have quit years ago, right?" Now this was the music he was talking about and Sherlock could do this! "After I started my first year at college I discovered classical music on a much broader scale, the depths of the genre enthralled me and I learnt of Bach, Strauss and Rachmaninoff. Music is an escape and it causes even the darkest places of my mind to sit up and pay attention. I play now because it keeps me sane, choosing what to play is only a bonus. I need music and I fail to possess the vocabulary required to stress that enough" he finished with a small nod. After listening to Sherlock talk about something he genuinely loved, a small smile had blossomed on John's face. 

"Every Holmes needs to control something. For my parents it was me, for Mycroft it is the running of this country and for me it is my mind. If the only way my mind is silenced is by being hungry then I'd choose that every time rather than be left with the aftermath of my upbringing. I sometimes wonder whether I survived childhood and it's times like these when I'm sure I didn't. I doubt any childhood is normal, but mine was like a bomb explosion." John visibly flinched at the reference and silently swore at the the thought of how bad it must have been for a child Sherlock. 

A few moments of silence passed and John was worried that Sherlock wasn't going to speak again. "How bad was it?" John asked quietly. Sherlock scrunched his nose and said "how do you mean?" Considering how to best phrase it, John decided on saying "your upbringing." Clarity covered Sherlock’s features like a blanket and he leant back with a small "oh" escaping his lips. Perhaps in answer to John's question or perhaps ignoring him completely, Sherlock continued: "starving oneself is not romantic or as glamorous as some seem to think. It takes a deep ingrained hatred to deny the body of nutrients. Yet, when I am empty I feel as though I'm floating, my footsteps are lighter and there's somehow less of me. I can glide through life unnoticed under the scrutiny of London's all knowing eye. I am full from the peace of mind I get in return for not eating. I swore to myself never to let it get out of hand again, but I'm hardly the one making the rules." John dared to ask "is this the worst it's ever been?" hoping that the answer would be yes. He didn't want to imagine a time when Sherlock was drowning in self hatred and had no one around him. Seemingly in deep thought, Sherlock finally said "no. For a period of amount nine months when I had just turned eighteen it spiralled out of control. I was elated at the prospect of moving away from home for university, away from him, but everyone I had ever trusted had hurt me. People are hard to judge sometimes and I feared not fitting in or getting hurt again, so my torrent of emotions lead me into the welcoming hands of this..whatever this is" with one hand vaguely motioning towards his head. "That's understandable" John said and the look he received made him instantly regret it. 

Sherlock sneered at him with a vicious look in his eyes, "don't fucking dare to 'understand' me doctor. I don't want to be understood or explained or bloody helped. I WANT TO BE HEARD." Holding his hands up John's eyes were wide, he knew the anger was misdirected but it still scared him to see his friend this distressed. "And I'm listening Sherlock!" he said in an attempt to placate him.   
Sherlock began pacing the small room, hands under his chin, short sharp strides. "He- my fucking useless father- would tell me not to eat any of the food that was bought into the house. I wasn't worthy of food. I was fourteen. If I had any sense I should have ate as much as I could just to spite him. My school noticed a change in my behaviour and Social Services visited the house. I tried to tell them that he hits me, that I live in constant fucking fear but they wouldn't believe me. My own mother covered for my father and that was when I lost all respect for her too. She's witnessed him beat me, she's begged him to stop yet she makes every effort to cover for him." Red hot tears began to fall down his pale face, their trails the evidence of his sorrow. He sat back down into the chair and looked exhausted. What little energy he had was obviously gone now.

John mentioned something about fetching water and left the room. 'Why was this still affecting me now?' He thought angrily. Minutes, hours or days could have passed until John returned clutching two bottles of water. Now he had started he couldn't seem to stop himself from saying everything he had ever thought; John sat with one leg over the other and Sherlock began again. "My life was hell John. It wasn't just the general neglect or abuse that had an affect on me. It was the snide, sarcastic remarks every single day. I would have been more than happy to never speak to him again once I'd moved, but then it was the texts. The repulsive, perverted nature of a middle aged man calling his son 'prince' turns my stomach. I can't get away from it." Hating himself, but having to ask John said "does it still go on now? Do you still get texts from..him?" Sherlock was clenching and unclenching his fists and was the very image of agitated. "No, but it doesn't need to. The damage is done" he confessed. 

A low vibration suddenly fell around the room and lasted for several seconds before being repeated again. "Oh good, time for lunch" Sherlock said sarcastically with his face betraying him of his usual bite. "You can do this, you know" John supplied. "See it as a locked room murder and only you are able to find the answer". They shared a small smile at the inappropriate analogy. Both men stood up, both trying, unsuccessfully, to hide their tear stained faces from each other. Feigning an air of normalcy Sherlock said "can I expect to see you soon? I can't be expected to stay here with nothing to look forward to. Their idiocy alone is enough to make me lose brain cells." A sad smile accompanied John's promise of "same time tomorrow."


	10. Fruit cocktails and friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for some very realistic descriptions of eating disordered behaviour.

Curling his fists and raising his chin, he dons his armour. The man he sees in the mirror disgusts him; the silence of the grey eyes show nothing of the quiet war raging inside of him. The truths that John had made him face threatened to show as chinks in his armour. 

It was mid afternoon and he should be making his way to the dining hall. The dull, persistent ache in his stomach was a small reminder as to why he was here. "It is lunch time" Sherlock said to himself, the words rolling around in his mouth, tasting revolting. 

He opened his door and took the dreaded route he remembered from that morning. The clack of his shoes against the linoleum floor quickly became irritating, so he stopped walking with such purpose. Millions of people have lunch every single day he reminded himself as he rounded the corner and slowly strolled into the large room, acting as if this was just one huge chore and it wasn't a big deal at all. He chose to sit on the end of the first row with the theory being that only one imbecile would have to sit next to him and not two if he sat anywhere else. Other patients gradually dwindled in as more and more nurses were sent to fetch specific people. After everyone was seated, lunches were given out. Being one of the closest to the counter, Sherlock received his first: a ham sandwich, a yogurt, a granola bar and a small plastic dish of fruit. He had felt pretty confident before he had to lay eyes on what was expected of him in the next thirty minutes. He realised he must have been just staring at it for a few moments as the clunk of cutlery could be heard from further down the table. 'Why would people eat a sandwich with a fork and knife?' He thought, but then his brain helpfully supplied that calories can just as easily seep into the skin. Shifting uncomfortably he unconsciously blurted out "I'm a vegetarian" and didn't even realise it was him until a nurse came over and said "That's fine Mr. Holmes" and replaced his sandwich for a cheese and tomato one. He recalled reading somewhere how turning temporarily vegetarian can help celebrities to lose weight quickly, strange how he remembered such a thing. 

Some people had already ate their sandwiches and were looking at the rest of the meal with a grim determination. He briefly wondered how long some of the poor bastards had been here for, but that wasn't going to help the task at hand. He picked up half of the newly replaced sandwich and the weight of it in his hand felt strange. The white bread scratched against his finger tips and he wasn't sure he wanted this filth inside of him. He put it back down and sighed. He didn't want the added pressure of being stared at as well as eating all of this crap. Dangerously close to giving up, his heart threateningly fluttered in his chest as a reminder that not eating was hurting no one but himself. He was aware that the majority of staff were purely focusing on him and he looked up to meet their challenging gaze, each one had metal studs for eyes. He gave up his air of indifference and slumped in his chair. 

A nurse was at his side within seconds as if she anticipated his moment of weakness, speaking quietly she asked "would you like to try a smoothie instead? Your body may just need reminding that it's hungry." Somehow the idea of a cool smoothie appealed to Sherlock and he nodded slowly. "You'll have to at least attempt lunch too, but this may help" the nurse said when she brought the smoothie back to the table. Sherlock yet again mentally praised Mycroft's choice because he was fully aware that some clinics would not swap food for anyone and he would have been on a drip long before this. The fruity drink was in a tall beaker, obviously they wouldn't give him a glass after this mornings behaviour. He experimentally picked the cup up in both hands and was shocked at the weight of it or rather at how weak he had become. He slowly brought it to his lips and took a small sip. Once it was in his mouth he would have to swallow it, he wouldn't do anything as undignified as spitting food out despite how desperate he was. He swallowed with a grimace and soon realised that he had barely tasted it at all. He took another small methodical mouthful and noticed hints of mango, banana, strawberry, orange and there was definitely a powdered substance that had been unnecessarily added, likely protein powder. Other patients were gradually vacating the room which somehow made him more comfortable. He was trying his very best not to think about the calories or where the weight would deposit first - he just had to get to the bottom of the cup. Thankfully no one had told him to hurry up or to stop taking breaks, which he considered a lesson well taught from this morning. It took him the best part of half an hour to eventually drain the cup, after which he leant back in his chair and ran his hands through his hair. 

The victory was short lived as he remembered the rest of the meal he was yet to eat. He pulled the tray closer to him and pushed the cup away; a nurse silently took the cup so he wouldn't be reminded by how much he'd already digested. There was nothing he could think of that would keep him suitably distracted long enough to eat, no puzzle, no memory, his full attention was on breaking down the nutritional content of the food in front of him. He could feel himself becoming overwhelmed, his breaths were coming quicker and his brain was in overdrive reminding him of all the hard work he had ruined. He pushed the tray to the side to allow room for his elbows to fit onto the table, his head sagged and he oozed defeat. He felt, rather than saw someone sit down opposite him. "My name's Sara" she said. He was forced to look up to put a face to the name and nodded once. She had honest brown eyes and short cropped hair. "Why don't you eat the fruit now, and then we can take a walk outside whilst you eat the cereal bar?" He scanned her with his eyes and asked in reply "why would you be willing to let me do that?" She smiled sadly and said "because I think you've been put through enough this meal time already, you can try the sandwich again tomorrow if you feel up to it." He realised that this was an olive branch and gave a small smile of his own.

He picked up the dish and began eating rhythmically. Ten chews and swallow, ten chews and swallow. It wasn't long before the dish was empty and Sara was handing him his coat and the promised cereal bar. He pocketed the granola bar and followed her out to a small lawn. She made conversation of anything but the clinic or food whilst he gradually eat his snack. He guiltily realised that the conversation had been rather one sided whilst he had taken fifteen minutes to eat and apologised. "It's my job to distract, don't apologise" she said. "It's not your job to make this easier for patients" he retorted. "True, but you are intriguing and not the usual type of patient we deal with so giving you at least one person to talk to will hopefully make this stint less of an ordeal," she replied as if she had rehearsed what she was going to say. They spent a few more minutes outside before going back indoors and through winding corridors. Sherlock went back to his room as he had a spare hour until another counselling session and quickly drifted off.


	11. Calories cause problems

"Hi, I'm here to see Sherlock Holmes," John said to the woman at reception. The woman nodded once and spoke into an intercom: "Sherlock Holmes has a visitor. I'll send him to B1." John internally thanked Mycroft for allowing this to be so smooth, he didn't know whether they'd just allow him access like yesterday or whether he'd need to fill out pages and pages of forms, this is why he had arrived fifteen minutes early. 

He slowly walked the corridors to the allocated room wondering what it would feel like to walk these corridors as a patient and not a visitor. He could imagine how imposing they would soon become. On his way he passed only one woman in a white clinical uniform; the only hint of colour was her red painted toe nails peeking out of the front of sandals like shells in a row. 

He swiped his card and entered the room. After leaving the clinic yesterday he went back to the flat to try and feign an air of normalcy because the flat was theirs and theirs alone. He then spent hours trying to process what Sherlock had told him when eventually he received a text from Mycroft saying 'Let him tell you when he's ready. MH'. Was this to be considered a warning or a salute? He didn't know. He knew from experience that whatever Sherlock was battling would not be beaten easily and ups and downs were to be expected; he just didn't know to what extent. 

Roughly twenty minutes had passed before Sherlock slunk into the room with the hint of a pout forming. "What's wrong?" John immediately asked. Sherlock curled up into an armchair and stared at his hands frowning. He was immaculately dressed in a pale grey suit with a crisp white shirt. In response to the question he just gave a half hearted shrug. "Did something happen earlier?" John guessed. "No" Sherlock quietly said. "I'm tired, John!" He suddenly said loudly. "Didn't you sleep last night?" John asked fondly. A shake of the head. "And why not?" he pressed. Sherlock met his eyes for the first time and admitted: "My mind would not have the decency to shut up. That's why." 

John sighed and turned to face his best friend fully. "Sherlock this is not supposed to be easy," he began. "I am not an idiot so don't you dare treat me like one as well!" Sherlock exploded. His chest was heaving and he didn't want to feel all of this anger. He started pacing with agitation pulsing through him. John barely flinched at the sudden display of emotion choosing not to comment instead. A hint of realisation suddenly dawned over Sherlock's features as he practically ran for the door. "Sherlock!" John shouted as he looked down the empty corridor. 'What on earth was going on in his head' he wondered as he continued to listen and look for his friend. After a few moments of fruitless searching the banal sounds of retching could be heard but John wasn't sure where to go or what direction they were coming from; he eventually decided to go back to their room and see if Sherlock would even come back. 

Nineteen minutes twelve seconds later Sherlock returned with a stench of cigarette smoke as a shadow. It still wasn't enough to cover the acidic fumes of sick. "I apologise" he said, as he took his seat once again. John merely raised an eyebrow in response causing Sherlock to explain; "I wasn't feeling well, but I am perfectly ok now." John nodded and asked "were you sick?" Sherlock looked sheepish when he answered, "yes. And before you say anything no, no one here needs to know. That's of course implying that they aren't already tracking my every move." John was torn between asking if he had made himself sick and whether this was a habit, or appeasing Sherlock through one of the toughest stages of his adult life. Sherlock, on the other hand, was busy calculating whether he had managed to dispel the hundreds of calories he had consumed for breakfast. Both men were trapped in their own heads, held prisoner by unasked questions. 

Sherlock was by no means a bulimic, so he struggled to understand what the hell just happened. He could easily link that seeing John made his subconscious remember yesterday's little chat and so he had been reminded of how dirty he was and how weak. Somehow the thought of someone knowing his best kept secret made him feel physically sick. 

A soft knock announced the arrival of Sara. "They've sent me on the hunt for you," she said instead of a greeting. "It can't be lunch time already?" Sherlock asked, voice raising ever so slightly with fear. "No, no, just been told to give you this" she said whilst handing him a cereal bar with a small smile. The look on Sherlock's face was nothing short of horror, either they'd found out he'd been sick or his calories were being upped. 

When it was obvious Sherlock wasn't going to make a move for the bar, John strategically cleared his throat. "Hi, I'm Dr John Watson" he said, walking over to the nurse. She shook his hand and exchanged pleasantries. Sherlock arranged his expression to one of indifference as Sara said that she had better be going. The cereal bar was placed on the table between the two chairs.

"She seems nice" John said after he sat back down. "Mm" Sherlock agreed. "I, um, don't suppose you would do me a favour?" Sherlock asked quietly after a few minutes of silence. "What's that?" John asked eagerly, glad a conversation had started again. "Take the stupid cereal bar with you, please" Sherlock replied dejectedly as his posture deflated into lines of defeat. John had expected worse if he was honest, but it was still disappointing. "Sherlock," John said with care in each syllable. "Please John. I know what you are going to say. You are a man of morals and duty, you want me to get better, of course you'll say no," the detective said, cutting across his only friend, "after what we discussed before I, um, cannot cope with dealing with food alongside my..past. My only coping mechanism is to starve or I will go insane."

They were staring each other in the eye with such purpose it was hard to say who looked more desperate. "You aren't planning anything stupid, are you?" John asked with trepidation. "No" Sherlock replied a beat too late. "Did you eat breakfast?" John wondered aloud. "All four hundred and eighty calories," Sherlock snapped back. "Well that's good" John said. "Is it?" Sherlock retorted with a sneer. "You should eat this if you have just thrown up, you know" John said quietly nodding at the cereal bar. "Please" Sherlock pleaded, "I can't do this, not today at least." His stomach painfully growled in rebellion of the undeserved neglect, sending tremors ricocheting throughout his fragile frame. Sherlock sighed with a great amount of effort, walked towards the window over looking the gardens and said: "I need to speak to my therapist, John. I understand the position I'm putting you in, but it is only out of trust. I could easily refuse food in here without anyone knowing for a while yet I am asking you to help me. Nothing is making sense in my head and thoughts travel slower when digestion is in the equation. I need something to anchor me when my mind is threatening to betray me, so I'll ask again: can you please dispose of that damned snack?" His hands were tightly clasped behind his back and his spine was rigid. "On one condition" John murmured. This caused the detective to turn and face his blogger. "yes?" he asked. "When I visit tomorrow you eat whatever snack I decide to bring without argument" John said evenly. Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed deeply for a moment before saying "I can try." His mind was already racing ahead, deducing and deciding what it is John was likely to bring and what the calories would be, hopefully it wouldn't be carb based.


	12. Creative Therapy

The worst thing to put in a therapist's office has to be a mirror. 'Who is in charge of the layout of things around here?' Sherlock wondered. He could see just where the calories were being distributed; breakfast, for example, had caused his cheeks to fill out so his profile had a less chiselled look and a more rounded appearance. Hateful. 

"I feel fine" Sherlock muttered in response to the therapist's trademark line of 'How are you feeling?' 

"On the contrary, if you felt fine you wouldn't need therapy" the therapist chided. 

"On the contrary, if you felt fine with aging gracefully you wouldn't dye your hair every month," Sherlock retorted, though it flew across the room with the same effect of throwing a piece of paper. He hadn't bothered learning the name of this particular woman because every session inevitably probed into his past, labelling him, leaving him feeling worse leaving than when he went in. Feelings were such unnecessary necessities, he decided.  
"So how have you been finding the meal times?" she asked with a bright encouraging smile.  
"Challenging" he settled on. 

The therapist raised her eyebrows and leaned back into the chair- almost merging in with the fabric- to entice Sherlock to say more. With an eye roll, a huff and a sigh, he said: "My brain still doesn't understand the whole concept of eating. Every day I go through an internal debate as to whether I should actually stay here and see this through because I depend on this coping mechanism like a crutch. I sometimes fear what destruction recovery will reveal." After he'd spoken his eyes caught the mirror again causing him to frown in disgust. The therapist hummed thoughtfully and delicately scribbled away in her notes. His brain informed him that she must be writing a way to increase his intake without him knowing. 

After what felt like an age she sat back up after being hunched over her notepad. "I tell this to all of my clients, but remember that this is your time to talk about anything you want to- any concerns, worries or struggles- within reason" she added with a knowing smile. "Do you have anything you want to discuss, Sherlock?" she probed.  
He didn't miss the informal use of his first name as a tool of persuasion, yet thought that it would be useless to skirt around the topic for another hour so he'd indulge her this once. 

"I've struggled with the issue of control my whole life" he admitted, clasping and unclasping his hands. "I aren't good at vocalising what goes on in my head and I aren't sure that words would be enough to cover it. This particular habit began when I was fifteen and was on and off until I was eighteen. I remember not eating for the Easter holidays, then when I returned back to school I convinced myself that I was doing my brain a disservice by starving, so I'd eat. It seems I still had logic and reason back then. At first, not eating for a few days would take the edge off for weeks and I'd just do it as needed. But, as with most habits, they either turn obsessive or addictive and in my case- both. Going to college and studying for A-levels was when things became harder to deal with. I figured that by throwing all of my effort into refusing food, I'd have less time for other things. It worked. The numbers became a puzzle for me and I welcomed the distraction."

The therapist stopped writing as soon as he stopped speaking and said in a quiet voice "what you've described seems like a normal reaction to a stressful situation, I would say that you were like many teenagers who find it hard to deal with academic pressures."

Sherlock replayed the conversation in his head, only to realise that her incorrect conclusion was because he hadn't been clear. "Firstly, I am not like your average client and secondly, I was never the average teenager. My IQ exceeds the majority of other's, so to suggest I couldn't cope with academic pressures is laughable. I could have still got straight A’s if I hadn't turned up. I taught the teachers, not the other way around" he sneered, slightly in disbelief at her accusation.  
"Then, just to clarify, what was it you meant when you said 'things became harder to deal with'?" she asked showing no confusion nor embarrassment. He closed his eyes and scrubbed a hand over his face- a nervous tic. "You can write it down if it'd be easier?" she ventured. "Don't be preposterous, I'm not a child. I had to do that in the Headmisstress' office when I was nine to document the names I was being called. No..." He trailed off. 

The therapist patiently waited for his response, knowing when to push and when to hold back. "What I meant to say was..." a long pause fell among the space between the two. Sherlock found his own reflection again and saw himself say "I was abused."

 

"Fuck, fucking, fuck," Sherlock said when he walked over to John at the water fountain. He leaned back against the wall and shut his eyes as John tried to juggle two cups of water and the key card all with a rucksack slung over one shoulder. 

"I heard that today is 'arts and crafts day' so I didn't expect to see you at all" John said in an attempt to cheer his best friend up.  
Sherlock sent him a withering look as they walked towards their room and said, "they put paint in syringes, medical syringes, then fire it at helpless targets across the room and dare to call it 'creative therapy'. If any went on my shoes I'd like to see the state of the person after I'd put paint in their blood stream." John snorted and led them through to yet another different room. This room was dripping with false serenity; four large walls in an off-white colour gave the room a rigid square shape with only one painting of tulips as decoration. There were no arm chairs to sit in, only one large sofa and a hard backed chair behind an intimidating mahogany desk.  
"Well, looks like we're sitting on a sofa today, I somehow don't feel like taking on the oppressive man-behind-desk look" John said as he placed the water on a nearby coffee table and sat down. 

Sherlock, on the other hand, was still standing near the door, forehead creased in thought.  
"Sherlock?" John asked.  
"Hm? Oh, were you talking?" Sherlock said quietly.  
"Yeah, I wondered whether you'd prefer to sit down rather than stand for an hour" John replied with a small smile, motioning to the space next to him. Sherlock wordlessly folded himself on the sofa and stared straight ahead, looking at nothing. 

After a few moments of silence had passed John realised that if any conversation was going to happen at all, he was going to have to initiate it. It honestly pained him to see his friend so distressed; Sherlock shouldn't be quiet and reserved in his own mind, he should be confident, bold and uncaring. His thoughts should be lighting his features up, he should be certain of himself. It was obvious to anyone who saw the man that he was plagued by something all-consuming.

"I went for drinks with Greg last night, think The Yard are definitely suffering without your input" John said cheerfully, sounding slightly too cheerful. Still no response.  
"It was good until your brother decided to walk me home," John added, certain that this would earn some sort of reaction.  
"What did he want?" Sherlock said in a voice so unlike his usual assertive baritone.  
John thanked every God he could think of that Sherlock wasn't a completely lost cause, and turned to face him full on.  
"He asked me to ask you if you'd meet him. I mean, obviously it'd be in here, but at least he isn't just turning up without notice," John informed him. Technically, the conversation had included Mycroft asking to see his brother, but it was more focused on his mental state- John thought he'd leave that bit out.  
"Tell him yes" Sherlock said, no argument, no questions. It was as though he'd just stopped caring. At the least there should have been a snide remark about interfering.  
"Will do, Greg sends his best as well," John said trying to carry the conversation along.  
"Greg?" Sherlock asked in confusion, turning to look straight at John.  
The response was just so normal John couldn't help laughing; his cheeks creased and his eyes closed as he threw his head back and laughed. "Lestrade's first name is Greg" John said when he got his breath back.  
Sherlock thought that out of the two of them, John probably needed psychiatric help more than him. "Why people need two names I'll never know" he said.  
"What, like 'Sherlock Holmes'?" John teased.  
"That's different. I'm important, people need to respect that" Sherlock said with finality.  
"That you are" John said smiling.

"Shall we just get it over with?" Sherlock said sullenly eyeing the bag with trepidation.  
"Oh, right yes" John said moving to get it.  
He stood up and fetched the bag from where he had unceremoniously dropped it on his way in. Yesterday, the idea of bringing Sherlock a snack had seemed something akin to genius for a mere mortal like John, but he soon realised that he was way out of his depth. What are you supposed to bring? Are there rules for how many calories a snack should be? Will he just scare Sherlock and make everything worse? In the end, a midnight trip to Tesco and a bit of research was the only thing he could think of.  
"I know you aren't going to be exactly looking forward to this, but I hope you know I want to help any way I can" John rambled, trying to rid the room of the growing tension.  
Sherlock had the expression of someone who had been told they're receiving capital punishment. John couldn't even begin to imagine how hard life would be if the very thing you need to survive, as well as air and water, was a threat. Most people have to come in contact with their fears once a week maybe, or twice a month, but this was several times a bloody day.  
After some delving around John produced a cereal bar and put it on the table next to Sherlock. Sherlock understood his thought processes, a cereal bar for a cereal bar, there wasn't much way he could go wrong then. 'It was only after speaking to Mrs. Hudson that I got the idea, I know you'd still not prefer to have anything, but yeah.." John said to prevent losing Sherlock to his mind. Sherlock leaned over and picked the disgusting, calorie laden bar over in his hands and couldn't help the laugh escaping from his throat.  
"Her memory can go back further than any archive in Britain," he said with amusement. This had been the result John had been hoping for and he was so glad he'd finally done something right.  
"I even got one for myself, she insisted that these things were to die for and I can't remember the last time I had a Bakewell Tart, I'll have to drop some hints next time I see her," John said happily. What John had found out was that when Sherlock was younger, he'd visit Mrs Hudson specifically for her Bakewell Tarts, something he'd only admitted one Christmas when he'd had slightly too much sherry. After scouring the shelves like someone possessed, he'd found a protein bar that was Bakewell flavoured.  
The smirk still had a place on Sherlock's lips when he opened the bar and took a small bite; his fingers tapped an agitated rhythm on his thigh as he chewed and chewed and chewed, but he had to admit the memories it brought back did help minutely. John began to eat his and couldn't help the 'Jesus Christ' he exclaimed when he tasted the unique flavour. The two men caught each other's eye and burst into hysterics at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. They must have laughed loud enough to be a nuisance as an official looking woman knocked on the door to remind them that 'this is a healing facility, you know'.  
When both bars were long gone, the room had an easier atmosphere that you didn't have to trudge through. 

"How was your session this morning?" John asked when there was a gap in the conversation.  
"Gruelling" Sherlock settled on. "But it helped somewhat" he added.


	13. New Model Mercedes

Tyres screeched and rebelled against the gravel as a new model Mercedes rolled into view. Sherlock was standing near the Reception greedily sucking on a cigarette with a gentle evening breeze giving shape to his curls. Despite the tinted windows and the lack of anyone in the passenger seat, Sherlock slowly sauntered over to the slowing car, cigarette hanging dangerously from two fingers. “How nice to see you, brother” Sherlock said with a false grin before Mycroft had even got one leg out of the car. “Same to you,” Mycroft replied curtly.

“I’ll text when you need to return George” Mycroft said to the driver, then it was just the two brothers alone. No need for facades if there’s no one to see it.   
Mycroft reached into his inner breast pocket and produced his own packet of low-tar cigarettes and a silver lighter. Sherlock merely smirked at his predictability- never one to miss an opportunity for a drag.   
Whilst using the excuse for a desperately needed cigarette, Mycroft was able to give his brother the once over, noticing how far he still had to go until he’d even be remotely close to ‘fine’.

“I trust you have a reason for being here?” Sherlock asked bluntly.

“Can’t I use the excuse that I wanted to see my younger brother? Check how he’s doing? I’m sure normal relatives do such things” Mycroft replied.

Exhaling deeply, Sherlock smirked and said “that would be suggesting that we are normal, brother mine.”

Mycroft scrunched his nose and murmured “I’d never do such a thing”, though if asked he’d strongly object to ever doing something as low class as murmuring. 

The brothers wandered aimlessly through the grounds; Sherlock had only recently gained the privilege of being able to go outside without supervision. The grass had the impression of feeling sorry for itself, wet with dew it was completely down trodden by the meandering footsteps of strangers. It can be understood why there was a clinic in the presence of such evident natural beauty. People often overlook small details and assume that they will always be there because they have always been there. But that shouldn’t be so, when the sky meets the earth it is undeniably astounding, yet how many times do people notice it? Or the different colours of the sky when the sun is getting ready to retire for another night, the pinks and angry oranges never have the attention they’re deserved. 

“In fact, I did have something I wish to discuss with you” Mycroft finally admitted.

“You do surprise me,” Sherlock said.

“I try” Mycroft quipped. “This is a rather delicate matter,” he continued “do you wish to go inside?”

“Don’t you like it out here? Or are you too used to being stuck in an office running the country?” Sherlock asked with a serious expression.

“I was merely asking about your preference, dear brother” Mycroft said with an angelic smile.

They both stood relishing in the crisp breeze as it danced around them, languidly puffing on their third cigarette.   
“I need you to do something for me” Sherlock said evenly.

“And what would that something be? I hear you’ve been asking for quite a few favours as of late” Mycroft said, not meaning for it to sound as sharp as it did.  
Sherlock gave him a filthy look out of the corner of his eye but refused to take the bait and talk about John. 

“You aren’t as easy to manipulate, dear brother” Sherlock said- knowing that Mycroft was well aware that he’d never take advantage of John like that but that this was a difficult conversation. “I was going to ask if you’d be as kind as to have my violin dropped off. Only the lord knows how long I’m going to be in this place and I’m already itching to play.”  
This surprised Mycroft, he’d been almost certain that Sherlock would ask something that would be detrimental to his recovery, he didn’t know whether to feel relieved or suspicious.

“I’ll have that seen to with all deliberate speed, your highness” Mycroft said with a small bow.   
Both brothers could read each other’s pretence as easily as if it was voiced and both brothers decided to overlook it. 

“Make sure the bow is in the case, it’ll probably be somewhere near my armchair. I’ll need rosin and sheet music too, anything by Bach will do” Sherlock said importantly.

“As you wish” Mycroft replied, as he got his phone out to text one of his minions the specifics. 

“If we do go inside, where do you want to have this conversation? I would say my room yet the walls are ridiculously thin and there is a constant singed smell in there. You could glare at a member of staff until they make everyone vacate the facility so we have it to ourselves? There’s nothing worse than an eavesdropper you know, cost me a case once.” Sherlock said with his usual amount of energy.

“There was a reason mummy said that I have more social etiquette than you, brother mine. I think just asking for an empty room is enough, don’t you?” Mycroft said with a smirk.  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and began the walk back to the main entrance. They were quickly ushered into a luxurious looking office- much larger than he and John had ever been allocated- and were left alone once again. 

“Out with it then, as much as I’d like to say I relish in your presence, I do have things to do, places to be,” Sherlock said as they sat down in adjacent chairs. 

“Ah yes, the busy life of a recovering anorexic” Mycroft sneered. And that was all it took for the somewhat safe atmosphere they’d built up to fall around their ears.

Sherlock stared in disbelief at the bluntness of the statement; is that how people saw him now? No charisma, no character, just someone who has lost control over his mind, someone who’s too weak to cope without help. The thoughts made him feel sick as they raced through his mind giving him no time to process anything. He cleared his throat and said in a dangerously low voice: “You are only a part of my recovery because I asked you to be. Don’t think for one second that I will hesitate in getting out of here, and this time, brother dear, you won’t find me. Ever try to make this, make me, seem diminutive I will never speak to you again. This is hell and I’d much rather be dead than deal with it so SHUT UP.”

Mycroft, in all fairness, did have the decency to look guilty and embarrassed. Though whether he was embarrassed at his own actions or the graceless outburst from his brother was something to be considered. “Don’t act like such a child” he said.

“A child? Do remind me how old I was when I learnt not to trust anyone, was I eight or nine? You forget that I was brought up to hold my own hand, I had no one to protect me Mycroft.” Sherlock said, emotion seeping into the words. 

Mycroft’s eyes widened slightly as he said “Do you think I grew up unscathed? You have reason to be angry Sherlock, but you’re not the only one.”

Both brothers stared at each other in disbelief having spoken of the one thing that had always been taboo. Mycroft was the quickest to recover; he shifted slightly in his seat showing his evident discomfort. “Actually, it was this that I wished to discuss,” he said slowly, studying his finger nails.

When Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow in response Mycroft was forced to continue. “I am aware of the cause of your illness, and despite what you tell yourself I do want you to recover dear brother. This is why I think it is important that you know that I support you, and whatever you need to discuss with therapists shall be deemed necessary. You do not need to consider the family name when you disclose information, and I am certain that nothing you do say will go further than this establishment.” After speaking he stole a look at his brother, only to see Sherlock looking distant with eyes slightly glazed over: he had entered his mind palace probably in an attempt to file this rare speech for further analysis at a later date.

A few moments passed before Sherlock blinked rapidly and then sent a cool grey stare at his brother’s direction. He cleared his throat awkwardly and murmured “That’s, um… good.”

“I’ll be expected to go to dinner soon, I would meet social expectations and ask whether you’d like to join us, but I doubt even you would stomach this food, it tastes like lead” Sherlock said.

The relief that Mycroft felt was practically dripping from his pores. The last thing he wanted was to part on difficult terms; one things the Holmes’ were good at was holding grudges.

“I’ll take my leave then” he said as he rose, “good evening brother mine.”

“Tell George to cut back on the Merlot, he probably needs intoxicating before working for you but still, he is over the limit” Sherlock said with amusement.

“Right you are” Mycroft said, smirking, as he slipped out of the room.


	14. Toast is the Tipping Point

Why can’t people understand? 

The thoughts swirl and collect like smoke. Eventually they’ll be so thick and heavy that they will drag you under. What will you do then? You can put all of your efforts into breathing, but why waste resources on things that aren’t guaranteed? You are drowning and all’s anyone is doing is describing the water.

You wonder what it would be like to just let go, to let yourself drift, to wonder who’d come to help you. There’s a point in between being asleep and waking up where you’d love to stay; it’s sort of a consciousness but without the reality. It’s tiring being alive isn’t it?

Even when you try to make the days count instead of counting the days they have a frustrating tendency to crash and stumble into each other, then who knows what day it is? How long you’ve been here? You certainly don’t. 

Just give up. The odds are stacked against you and always were. Your limbs are filled with lead, you’re going to fall soon. 

A slice of plain toast is placed in front of you. You try to keep your expression neutral but wonder whether it’s worth the effort. You mechanically follow everyone else’s lead and pick up your knife. Blunt knives have to be the worst type of knives. You sink it into the butter dish, watching it trudge to the bottom only to pull it back out and wipe off all of the calories onto kitchen towel. Your hands are shaking slightly and your head is hurting. You repeat the action, this time wiping the smallest possible amount onto the toast. A nurse reminds you that you need to have more butter than that, Sherlock. You can’t think of anything more ridiculous. You glance across to the sinks where two women are washing dishes. You remember what it was like to put your hand into dish water with the odd bit of food floating on the surface. You try not to heave. You stare at the toast sitting there. You imagine how it will scratch the back of your throat, make you feel heavy all day, make you gain weight. You try to calculate how long you’ll have to sit there before you’re allowed to leave, but you soon forget your train of thought and your head is blank once more. People leave the room, people come in the room. Nothing changes. You want to play Bach’s second partita in D Minor. You have this thought that you can do anything; who is actually going to stop you from walking out? It’s your body, you have all your life to be perfect. You are the constancy.

“John! How great to see you” you say with a smile. You wonder whether you went over the top, but he doesn’t seem to have noticed.

“You’re in a good mood?” John asks with an honest smile.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” you ask in what you hope is your normal tone.

He just shakes his head, still smiling.

“Look what I’ve got!” John says practically grinning. (Why is he so happy?)

You pray it’s not food.

He holds your violin up.

You smile. And then you frown. How didn’t you notice it in the room?

“Everything okay?” he asks at your sudden change in expression.

“Of course” you say, not meeting his eyes.

You feel like punching yourself senseless.

You used to exercise when you felt like this before.

You have an idea.

“Actually, could you fetch me some water? Got a bit of a migraine coming on” you say, with Oscar worthy acting.

“Sure” John says and he leaves the room.

You run to the window and see a blacked out car parked up: so Mycroft’s minions are chauffeuring John. 

You make sure you’re sitting down when he comes back and sip at the water gently.

When he’s relaxed again, you put the plan into action.

“I have something to tell you” you say, smiling. 

“What’s that?” he asks, showing no hint of suspicion.

“I had a meeting earlier and it’s been decided that I’m allowed out of the grounds, just for this hour, but it’s still better than nothing. I thought we could go to the nearby town, a change of scenery sounds appealing.” You hope it sounds casual. 

“That’s great! Well, we should get moving before our times up” he says grinning, again.

You pick your violin up possessively and curse at having left your coat in your room.

“Mycroft’s men gave me a lift, so we could ask them to drive us?” John suggests.

“Excellent idea, John” you say, barely containing your excitement. The darkness is ebbing away slowly.

You tell him that walking around the back of the grounds, effectively avoiding the reception, is the quickest route. It works. ‘How easy is this?’ You think.

Settled into the back of a car, driving away from your problems is the best idea you’ve ever had you decide. Oh, and the bit where you pick pocketed John so he left his keys in the room giving you chance to tell the driver the real destination was also rather good. You wonder how long it’ll take before John realises we’re going in the wrong direction, and that it’s taking longer than ten minutes. Hmm.


	15. Richmond Runaways

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for leaving it so long without an update, but for those who read this fic when it was first published I am returning to it and hope to finish it soon.

When John came back to the car, you are sat on the far side so no one passing could even see your silhouette. John starts talking about things that at one time would have caused your brain cells to rot, but now, now they are a welcomed distraction and you eagerly participate in the unreliability of British weather. John had missed spending time with his best friend like they used to so he was easily sucked into the inane chatter. He failed to notice the constant vibrating of Sherlock's phone, or the dull buzz of the driver's bluetooth. His own mobile was on silent, as he never liked even the slightest interruption when he visited Sherlock. 

Sherlock counted the nineteenth buzz; nineteen phone calls from Mycroft probably wondering what on God's green earth he was playing at. In fairness, he didn't yet know himself. Obviously, he was trying to get away, away from the clinic, his disease, his past, everything. The driver eventually pulled onto a dual carriageway and it so happened that the conversation had taken a natural pause, causing John to finally acknowledge his whereabouts, and discard Sherlock's careful manipulation. John finished laughing at something Sherlock had told him about Mrs Hudson's past that he found rather easy to believe when he glanced out of the window- smile still on his face. His eyes widened and he looked at his watch. Twenty-six minutes had passed since they had got into the car and this was clearly nowhere near a small town. Anger clouded John's thoughts and he didn't want to look at Sherlock's smug reaction to having outdone everyone yet again this time. He didn't know whether saying something or saying nothing was the best route to take- he didn't want Sherlock to know that the penny had finally dropped. Carefully arranging his features and resisting checking his phone, he turned to Sherlock and asked something completely random hoping that he wasn't letting on to knowing anything. Sherlock responded easily and they were back discussing the disgustingly low capabilities of criminals in central London. 

The car finally stopped after forty-one minutes, not that Sherlock or John were counting. And not that every minute had been punctuated by another missed call from Mycroft. 

Sherlock didn't really have a plan, which he regretted as soon as the engine cut out. John feigned normality and got out of the car, stretching his back and legs doing so. He waited for Sherlock to make the first move in this dance of theirs. Sherlock slowly got out of the car, grasping his violin firmly to his chest as some form of barrier. He leaned in the front window and said something to the driver that John wasn't able to make out, but the driver replied with "Right you are, Mr Holmes", and pulled off in the same direction they had just come from.   
Sherlock determinedly avoided his best friend's eyes, scared whether he would find the flat mate, the sergeant or the doctor. His fingers nervously drummed against the leather handle of the case as he tried to gather the courage to address his mistake. After too many moments of awkward breathing and broken attempts at saying something meaningful, Sherlock straightened his shoulders and began to walk away down the tree-lined street. He knew that they were near to Richmond Park- one of his childhood favourites, and frankly didn’t care what John thought of him at that moment. Was it his fault he couldn’t cope anymore? It certainly wasn’t his fault people were suffocating him and just wouldn’t leave. Him. Be.   
“Sherlock!” John shouted as soon as he saw his intentions at walking away from his problems. Sherlock graced him with a fleeting glance before slowing his pace- obvious he wasn’t running from John, but he was determined to run from something.   
“Without making this even more uncomfortable, what are you doing, Sherlock?” John asked when he had caught up with him.   
“Walking”, Sherlock replied.   
“Walking where?” John countered.   
“Undecided yet,” Sherlock murmured. They walked in frustrated silence until they reached a cross roads. Sherlock confidently strode right, causing John to jog slightly, “sure it’s this way” John barely heard him justify.   
“What’s what way?” John asked confused. Sherlock stole a quick look at his best friend then quietly answered “sanity, havoc, everything, nothing.”  
John could mildly sympathise with what his friend was doing, he wasn’t an idiot when it came to the depths and complexities of mental illness and he himself had been familiar with the iron, cold grasp of one. So, ‘fair play’ he thought, let Sherlock get whatever it was out of his system. Discreetly, but still probably with Sherlock’s attention, he slipped his hand into his pocket and flicked the switch that takes his phone off silent mode. Then when the next call came through, he’d have excuse to answer.   
The pair had just walked past a row of very posh houses, and were coming up to the park’s steel gates, when Sherlock asked “Where’s the shouting?”  
John smirked despite himself, and shrugged: “To be honest, you could have done something a lot worse than an impromptu run away, and at least I’m with you,” he answered. Sherlock mulled this over in his mind, twisting the words every which way before concluding: ‘Indeed.’  
“I used to come running here when I was at University,” Sherlock said.   
John could see the appeal of such a large park, but didn’t quite see Sherlock as the keen running type either. He also noticed how this was Sherlock’s way of admitting that his difficulties had been plaguing him for the majority of his life. 

Sherlock felt like he could finally breathe again being outside, knowing that there was no one to tell him what to do, where to be. He loved the aesthetically pleasing textures of this specific park; the path started out as a sandy trail, but then was tarmacked near the car park and café, then it changed back to a more natural mud path formed through thousands of footprints engraving it for good. The wild deer were only a bonus, providing something akin to an attraction for many people.   
“We may as well make use of the stolen time, I feel like a criminal the longer I’m with you” John said with amusement.   
“That’s what I like to hear” Sherlock said triumphantly.  
“It wasn’t supposed to be reinforcement, Sherlock” John grumbled.

Sherlock dismissed John’s complaint with a wave of his hand. They walked together for a few minutes before reaching the café, John suddenly felt extremely guilty that he was allowing Sherlock to be detrimental to his recovery and so suggested they go in for a drink: liquid calories were better than no calories he reasoned. Sherlock surprisingly agreed, but only because he was feeling a little weak from the sudden excitement of what had now become his boring life.   
Sherlock gently placed his violin down, leaning against the edge of the table as John went to order the teas. He sat on the edge of his seat, as was his norm, and fiddled with sugar packets willing John to hurry the hell up. Being in a café felt bad enough, never mind now being devoid of his friend; people might actually think he was eating there, or some waiter might mistake him for someone else and give him food. It was all too risky. 

John ordered the teas and patiently stood in queue trying to resist the urge to glance over his shoulder to make sure that Sherlock was still there. Carrying the tray, he weaved his way through the busy café and sat opposite his friend.   
"You should have brought your coat, you know" John said as a way to break the silence.   
"Ah, but I was more concerned with getting the hell away from that place than keeping my body at optimal temperature," Sherlock replied with a smirk ghosting his lips.  
A few minutes passed where the only noise came from the stirring of John's spoon against the cup; "I don't know what to do" John admitted eventually.  
"You could try to stop stirring your tea as much" Sherlock said, knowing full well what he meant.  
"I could, and you could try to be more honest" John retorted.   
"Honest about what?" Sherlock asked with steel in his voice- he'd recently confided in John with the horrors and secrets of his past, and apparently that wasn't 'honest' enough for him?  
"With this, with what goes on in that head of yours" John replied calmly.  
"I don't know what you're expecting me to say" Sherlock murmured.  
"You told me you want to be alive, anorexia isn't a form of dieting unless by dieting you mean dying" John said, causing Sherlock to mildly flinch at the mention of his diagnosis.  
"I am not suicidal, if that's what you're asking" Sherlock said addressing his still untouched cup of tea instead of his friend.  
"Good, that's good. I know I am an idiot in comparison to a Holmes, but what is this about then? I know that inpatient isn't somewhere you want to be, somewhere that anyone would want to be, but you need to learn to live again. I'm scared for you, that I haven't done enough and aren't doing enough. I would give anything to go on a rooftop chase with you in some rundown East End alley, but I need the real you back Sherlock!"  
Sherlock glanced out of the window and saw committed cyclists and joggers making distance and here he was sat down, burning no calories, getting fatter. He thought about whether other people run to count the calories burnt, to feel the burn in their lungs when they'd gone too far, or whether they did it for fun.  
"I don't know what the real me is like, John. For as long as I can remember there has always been two sides of my mind, the side you are familiar with and the side that is trying to kill me. As of late, the balance has been lost and I am drowning in this. I know I need help, but I am too fucking tired" Sherlock said quietly.  
"Stints like this aren't going to make it any easier though and I think you know that" John said.  
"This isn't a stint, it's a fucking attempt to feel alive. You don't know how much I hate being confined and told every day that what I think is wrong, and that I aren't trying enough, and so my visitors rights will be taken and then if I go back today they will probably stop me from seeing you again" Sherlock quickly said, folding and unfolding his hands.  
"Okay, let's get one thing straight. I will always visit; I am John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, and I am going to help my best friend recover. Also, there isn't really a question of if you go back later today, you know Mycroft for one will have me hung and quartered if I don't see you return and you need to get better this time Sherlock, your time is up."

With anxiety fluttering in his chest like a caged butterfly caught in his rib cage, Sherlock climbed out of the back of the car and walked towards reception not looking back to see John leave.   
Before he could quietly make his way back to his room unnoticed, three doctors and Mycroft rose as he entered. "Afternoon" Mycroft said with a knowing smile.  
"I am going to take a nap, and you are going to get me out of this. Attempt two starts tomorrow, brother mine" Sherlock said as he made his way down the far corridor.   
Mycroft smiled at his retreating back, knowing that his brother was going to be fine.


	16. Chapter 16

"I expect you know why you've been called in?" a man with a rather long face asked.  
"Haven't the faintest," Sherlock replied, averting his gaze from the man in front of him.  
"Well, let me explain then. Yesterday I was told that you didn't eat anything all day, and today it is now 4PM and you still have failed to eat."  
Sherlock minutely shrugged, eliciting a sigh from his dietician.  
"Do you want to explain what's going on, perhaps?" the man asked.  
"Not particularly," Sherlock replied after quite some time.  
"If you don't eat at dinner time you will be put on an IV drip that will guarantee you have three meals a day, this isn't a threat Sherlock, I'm just trying to warn you before the clinics protocol is enforced."  
"Can I go now?" Sherlock asked, finally looking up from the carpet.  
"You may," the doctor said with resignation. 

Sherlock walked slowly down the corridor, pointedly choosing to avoid the 'art therapy' class for today. Two days of no food meant that his energy levels had crashed and he couldn't even be bothered to attend the yoga class- his only form of exercise whilst in here. The dull, constant pain in his stomach should have reminded him to eat, to battle through, but instead he found he had missed this feeling of emptiness. Gratefully sitting on his bed, his vision swam and he closed his eyes until he was sure the room had stopped spinning. Rain was hammering against the window reminding him of a time when he'd curl up with a book feeling like he was in the only safe place in the world, but he hadn't read a full novel in months because of his faltering concentration.

If he was in any way functioning to his normal capacity, he would have noticed the police car slowly roll into view. 

Greg casually strode towards the entrance, trying to keep his expectations open- he didn't think that Sherlock would be miraculously cured after a few short weeks, but he hoped there had been some change.  
"Here to see Sherlock Holmes," he said to the woman on reception with a smile.  
"Do you have a visiting form, sir?" the woman replied.  
"Eh, no. But-" Greg was cut off by the telephone ringing. He politely stepped aside pretending not to listen in case it was anything confidential. A few moments passed with the woman sending glances his way and replying to the person on the other end with monosyllabic words: "yes," "ok", "right."  
When she had said her goodbyes, he headed back to the desk to try and explain why he had to be allowed to see Sherlock, but before he could say anything she handed him a pass and said "Sherlock Holmes will be sent to you".

Left slightly confused but grateful, Greg eventually found his way to the allocated room and let himself in.  
Sherlock joined him nearly fifteen minutes later looking utterly exhausted and pale.

"Anyone would think you didn't want to see me, sunshine?" Greg said to break the silence.  
"Why's that?" Sherlock asked frowning slightly.  
"Because of how long I've been waiting! You weren't busy with something, were you? John will kill me if I've come between one of your sessions or whatever," Greg explained.  
After a few moments, the penny dropped and Sherlock could see what Greg had meant. "Ah, no. I was sitting in my room actually" Sherlock said, slouching in his chosen chair.  
"So how is this place? Bet it's driving you nuts! Shit, sorry, I didn't mean you were nuts or anything, I meant the restrictions and stuff" Greg said gesturing with a guilty look.  
"Don't do that. Don't filter everything you say, that's what will 'drive me nuts' as you eloquently phrase it. And it's fine, it's all fine" Sherlock replied.  
"Right, sorry. John told me he was worried about you, by the way" Greg said quietly.  
Sherlock just looked away.  
"Why would he be worried if things were 'fine' Sherl?" he pressed.  
Sherlock shrugged.  
"At least bloody talk" Greg eventually said with frustration.  
"Why?" Sherlock questioned.  
"Because that's how conversations work. What's wrong? Or what would you want to talk about?" Greg said.  
"I want to sleep" Sherlock murmured.  
"Is that your way of saying you wish I'd just leave?" Greg said hoping that he wasn't being pushed away.  
"It's my way of saying I'm tired" Sherlock said sharply.  
"You can pack that right in. If you want me to go just bloody say Sherl, I can't mind read" Greg said, rubbing his neck.  
"Shall we get out of here for a bit?" Sherlock said, knowing full well what the answer would be.  
"As much as I'd love to, police car or not I doubt they're going to let me drive off with a patient, and especially because of, well, before, last time" Greg finished awkwardly.  
Sherlock just rolled his eyes and sunk further into his chair, something Greg didn't think were possible.  
"How's stuff going then, in here?" Greg began, desperate to restart a conversation.  
Sherlock glanced over at him then quickly looked away before he said "bit not good."  
Greg tried to keep his expression clear of the worry that he was currently being suffocated by.  
"Have you told someone? Have you told John?" Greg asked.  
"I have apparently 'failed' to eat for two days now, and after today will be tube fed" Sherlock began, ignoring Greg's questions.  
"Fuck, Sherlock" Greg murmured.  
"John doesn't know, and nor will he. I don't need his pity or sympathy, I'm fine," Sherlock continued.  
"You know that's not a good enough reason to keep him in the dark. He's worried out of his mind as it is, and yeah, he'll probably kill me for telling you this, but you aren't the one who has to convince him day after day that you are too stubborn to do anything over than recover. You don't have to get texts with hidden questions because he's scared that you'll block him out, that you won't confide in him. He is your best bloody friend Sherlock, and you should start acting like it" Greg said with clear agitation.  
"It's been alright for a while, it's only the last few days" Sherlock attempted to justify.  
"Unless you're going to tell me that you're going to turn this around, as I know you are capable of, I frankly don't want to hear the shit" Greg snapped.  
Sherlock had the decency to look mildly guilty.  
"Sherlock you can't keep doing this. John said you were doing well, and Mycroft for that matter. What's going on, now?" Greg asked.  
"I, er.." Sherlock attempted then stopped himself and shook his head causing his curls to bounce in retaliation.  
"Sherlock" Greg warned.  
"I shouldn't be here" Sherlock finally growled.  
"Look, you're going to think that you don't need a place like this, but trust me you honestly do. I would never lie to you about this Sherl, you need to be here, you need the-" Greg was cut short by Sherlock's sudden standing.  
"Do you want the truth? The full fucking truth?" Sherlock said, voice rising at being contradicted.  
Greg stayed silent because he knew Sherlock would continue when ready.  
"The utterly embarrassing truth that disgusts me to simply admit, is that I am hungry. I am starving. I have refused five meals and haven't ate in 47 hours 13 minutes. I feel hunger now they have pumped me full of food for weeks. I need to show myself that I can still do this; that I am strong enough to refuse, that all my efforts haven't been wasted. If I eat one thing, I feel as though I would eat everything so I survive on eating nothing," Sherlock yelled, "now do you fucking see?"  
"Sherlock you are human, piss off with that sociopath bollocks and listen, you need food and you have always needed food, but you have not always made the best decisions. This place can help change that and rectify the strain you constantly put your body through. I am asking you, begging you if it would make a difference, to please just see this through. I want to see you storm in my office talking down to me, not me driving to the arse end of London to see you confined in this place and miserable" Greg said with emotion.  
Sherlock paced the room a few more times before sitting down again.  
"I don't want to gain anymore weight" he admitted quietly.  
"I am someone who could do with losing a few pounds Sherlock, and if I did no one would notice. If you lost anymore it would be the easiest thing to see, and you are putting yourself in danger. What it looks like to me is that you don't want to live, this is going to kill you and I think you know that" Greg said.  
"I am not suicidal" Sherlock growled angrily.  
"Then start bloody living!" Greg retorted.

Sherlock just nodded.   
"John has stopped going to the gym" Sherlock said suddenly.  
"Did he say that?" Greg wondered.  
"No, I could tell. He thinks I'll be insulted or something stupid like that" Sherlock explained.  
"Because you can't exercise whilst in here and he still can?" Greg clarified.  
"Right" Sherlock agreed.  
"He just doesn't know what he should or shouldn't do Sherl, none of us have been given instructions with this and we all care about you so much so I guess it's just hard," Greg explained.  
"It's hard for me too," Sherlock quietly confessed.  
"God yeah, I'm not saying any other sunshine, you are stupidly brave and-"   
"I've never been stupid in my life" Sherlock interrupted.  
"Ha, down to opinion eh?" Greg said with a smile.  
"No, it's fact. Differing opinions have no interest to me because they're wrong" Sherlock said convincingly.  
"Sort this out and I'll never say you're stupid again, deal?" Greg offered.  
"Rather a lot at stake, Inspector" Sherlock smirked.  
"Well, you're life is at stake at the minute so unless you want me to change your name in my phone to 'Sherlock the stupid', you better buck up, kid" Greg said with amusement.  
"I couldn't possibly allow it" Sherlock defended.  
"I look forward to seeing you in Baker Street in the near future," Greg said honestly.  
"Me too. Now if you'd be so kind, I have a date with dinner this evening" Sherlock said holding his gaze.  
Greg smiled with such genuine happiness, he wondered how sane he actually looked at that moment.  
"I'll be back soon, sunshine" Greg promised.  
Both men hugged and if Greg patted Sherlock's shoulder with silent affirmations that all will be fine, no one mentioned it. The two were saved from awkward goodbyes by the buzz of the dinner alarm.


End file.
